


The Lion of the Shire

by Twisted_Barbie



Series: Inspired by Movies [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Barbie/pseuds/Twisted_Barbie
Summary: AU. The Holy Kingdom of Erebor has known peace for a thousand years until this day.A council is called upon to end the King’s tyranny but not all is as it seems.Inspired by The Prince of Persia:  The Sands of Time
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Inspired by Movies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1461613
Comments: 20
Kudos: 54





	1. The Council

The chessboard was ancient. Carved from the wood of a willow tree, the figures depicted the battle between Sindarin and Silvan elves that has waged since the dawn of time. The craftmanship is masterful and as he reaches out his hand to caress the high cheekbone of the King, the piece crumbles to dust before his very eyes. He retracts his hand immediately and turns his back to the board, hiding the evidence of his folly. The blond Elvenking Thranduil observes him with a knowing icy stare that makes his blood run cold and reveal his guilt in his downturned expression. 

“His treachery cannot go unpunished.” Thranduil continues, having paused a moment to give him a side-eyed glare. He hasn’t been paying attention and is still uncertain as to why his presence was requested in the Greenwood. He doesn’t flatter himself; the summons was only for one hobbit and his lack of immediate family made him the perfect candidate. That, coupled with his mother’s blood and the meddling Sackville-Bagginses, made this whole adventure appear more of an ousting than whatever it may be.

“Such treachery after so long, why does he arm himself now?” Asks a confused King of Dale. 

He is not the only one of nobility within present company. The dwarf Lord of the Ironhills, Dain Ironfoot sits by the fire with a look of boredom upon his aging sagged face. Beside the table laden with food sits the overly-large, thinning ginger-haired Master of Lake-town, cracking walnuts. In the corner dwelling in the shadows and smoking a long pipe that lights up his face with every inhale sits Strider, a Ranger from the North whose potential royal origins were as mysterious as the man himself. 

Only himself and Beorn were common folk, however, Beorn was a skin-changer, the last of his kind. Almost twice the size of Strider in his human form, he could take the shape of an equally large bear so if he deemed himself a King, none would argue. Which, of course left himself as the odd one out. He did not belong in such company. The Shire had no royalty but they did have a Thain who should have been summoned rather than himself. 

“I have long suspected this of Thorin. It is in his blood. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Thranduil replies resolute. He hasn’t been listening but that name sounded familiar and piqued his curiosity. 

“Have we any proof of his treachery?” King Bard of Dale, presses. Thranduil looks sharply over towards the red-haired dwarf who stands from his seat and marches over to Bard, throwing a piece of parchment before Dale’s King. “What is this?” Bard asks, unable to read the script. 

“An offer of payment for men and weapons.” Dain spits nastily as if the words tasted bitter. 

“There is your proof. Seized from the hand of the notorious weapons smuggler Nori. It has the dwarven King’s sigil. I have compared the writing and can confirm it is one and the same. Thorin Oakenshield is purchasing an army.” 

“Sweet Valar,” Bard breathes aghast and sits back in his seat, face ashen and mouth agape. 

“You plan to wage war with Erebor?” He asks incredulously and laughs believing it to be a joke done in poor taste but soon stops as no one contradicts him. “Erebor is a holy city.” He states, sobering quickly. 

“And its King is a traitor.” Thranduil replies steadfast. He looks to Bard for help but the King has been convinced. Dain was the one to intercept the letter, the Master of Lake-town appears only to be hungry and Strider continues to listen and smoke, leaving Beorn. He turns towards the skin-changer and tilts his head back to give him a pleading look. 

“I do not like dwarves.” Beorn begins and his heart plummets. “They are greedy and blind because of it. But the bunny speaks the truth.” He does a double take as he realises bunny was a reference to himself. “Erebor is a holy city and we’d be fools to attack them.” He nods vigorously beside him, glad to have an ally. 

“Rather to be foolish than to be dead. It was decided long ago that Erebor’s might was too strong that should Sauron’s dark shadow fall upon it, all would be lost. A pact was made that Erebor would have a military large enough to defend itself but not enough to conquer. That pact has held for a thousand years and it was broken today.” Beorn nods his head slowly, falling prey to Thranduil’s convincing words. 

“What of the Istari?” He nigh on begs. He has been given a voice and he chose to use it. “Gandalf the Grey is a friend of the Shire.” 

“He cannot aid us in time. We have only one chance to prevent this war. Tomorrow. Noon. A payment in disguise of their monthly blessing will leave the mountain and their military force will be halved. I do not desire bloodshed. Oakenshield must be swiftly brought to justice and made to yield. Once that is accomplished, the payment will be ordered to be returned to the mountain and Oakenshield’s treachery will become known to all.” 

He has no response. The Elvenking’s mind has been made up, which makes him wonder why he was here given a voice when Thranduil chose not to hear it. 

“I am a reasonable King.” Thranduil goes on, much to his chagrin. “I do not make this decision lightly and I respect the opinion of each of you gathered here today.” A lie, and one he can barely control rolling his eyes to. “I cannot do this alone. Waging war with Erebor is no little thing but my reasoning is just, and for all of our sakes. King Thorin would be unstoppable with an army and his rule would spread like a plague. He is a stubborn fool, those who would stand against him will fall. What he has done is an act of war and it will take us all to defeat him. We must stop him now, before it is too late, and so I ask you to raise your hand if you are with me.” Needless to say, Dain’s hand shoots up first, followed by Bard’s, albeit timidly. The Master of Lake-town throws his hand in the air mimicking Bard’s submission though his small greedy eyes have not left the food on the table that he was unsure if the man even knew what he was agreeing to. From the corner, Strider raises his hand and then Beorn lifts his hand. Feeling pressured, he reluctantly raises his own hand to the satisfied grin of the Elvenking. 

“It is decided then, on the morrow at noon when the gates are open, Bilbo will slip through…”

“Pardon?” He interrupts. 

“You are small, dwarf-like, and from what I am told, you can walk unseen.” It is not a gift as Thranduil is making it seem. He walks unseen because he is largely ignored. “You will hide within the mountain for one hour, by then the blessing will be on board and commandeered by lake-men while the army will be stranded on Long Lake. When one-hour passes, I shall wage war at the gate giving Bilbo the opportunity to open the gates. Once inside I shall find the traitor and have him order his men to stand down. Some will die, yes, but it is a necessary evil.” He doesn’t agree but he has been outvoted and Thranduil’s plan does appear to have minimal bloodshed and so he nods in agreement with the others.


	2. The Arkenstone

The hooded prayer robes of Erebor are as grey in colour as the rocks the dwarves were born from. Upon the left breast, there is stitched seven golden stars, the emblem of Durin and made from Durin the First’s crown. He does not know how Thranduil came into possession of it, and he has learnt in their brief communications that it is better to not ask questions. 

He feels like a villain adorning the sacred robe despite his allies assuring him that he was on the side of light. In his heart he knows that it is wrong but he can find no answer that is right. The evidence against Erebor’s King is staggering and he agrees that they must act against his tyranny. Despite his misgivings, the plan is their best option.

At the first strike of the bell signalling the twelfth hour the great gates to the Kingdom of Erebor open. The priests are first to emerge from the mountain with their hoods drawn up over their lowered heads with their hands clasped in prayer. There are twenty-one high priests in total, the divine seven under the three, the Father, the Mother and the Divinity. Their number varies when blessing the cargo and he quietly counts them as they leave the mountain. If he reaches twenty-one then this has all been for naught but Dain has assured him that one of the priests would not be present. He chose not to dwell on how Dain was so confident, or how Thranduil came into the possession of the robe he now wore. 

Sixteen…seventeen…he counts to distract himself from such thoughts. Each five steps another priest emerged perfectly in sync with one another. Six steps, seven, still nothing. He takes a deep breath and draws the hood up over his head. Eight, nine. He emerges from his hiding place between the rock and the door, a strategic spot to not cause suspicion and falls in line with the other priests with his head lowered and hands clasped. 

They do not walk far, only fifty metres to the bridge where they come to a halt and stand in a line two paces from each other and face the great gate. By the sixth ring, hundreds of infantry dwarves have marched from the mountain in perfect unison, seven to a row.

At the seventh ring the priests fall to their knees, an action he almost missed as his sight is obstructed by the hood. He falls to his knee’s moments later, turning his head to the right, hopeful that his delayed actions were not too obvious. 

He watches as the priests almost prostate themselves in the presence of the Blessing that takes the form of seven wagons of gold. Their knees are bent but their chests are pressed against the rock with their arms extended and hands flat against the surface. They whisper their prayers to the rock while he mimics their posture and mutters nonsense to keep up appearances, all-the-while looking out from beneath his hood. The wagons are moving, he can see the wheels in his restricted vision and the heavy stomping feet of the dwarves who follow it. He turns his head slightly to the right to follow the actions of the priest beside him who is still praying to the rock. A position he maintains until the chime of the twelfth bell when their mumbling prayers cease and their postures become lax. 

He continues to mimic the priest’s actions and rises to his feet when he is suddenly filled with dread. The end of the row, where he had watched and waited has become the beginning. His heart beats rapidly in his chest as he feels their plan unravelling. He tries desperately to quell the panic rising within him and turns towards the great gate and begins to walk towards it. His hands shake as he clasps them in prayer but the panic eases as he hears the rustling of robes behind him as the priests follow him. 

Two guards stand by the open doors wielding lances and great golden circular shields. The purity of the gold makes their shields reflective and he is able to see the priest behind him look up and bow his head before continuing on. He quickly looks up towards the rampart but only spies two large hands with fat fingers adorned with rings splayed on the battlements. He bows regardless, assuming it must be the King as only he is an authority figure to the high priests besides the Gods themselves. He continues on into the mountain and walks straight ahead across a floor that was more gold than rock. 

He slows his pace and breathes a sigh of relief as the priests’ fan out, departing in different directions as Thranduil said they would. He loiters in the Great Hall trying to suppress his need to explore the spacious hall and appreciate the beautiful architecture. If he revealed his awe of the mountain, he would give the game away. He shakes his head. A game was joyous, this subterfuge was not. 

He lingers a moment longer until he is sure that he is under no surveillance and turns towards the now closed gate. As Thranduil said, there is an alcove some metres to the left of the door and as he heads towards it, he sees the inky blackness of hollowed space. As he nears it, he looks around once more with his hood still up and finding no eyes upon him, he ventures into the darkness. He holds his hands out in front of him in fear he may collide into something as he steps forward slowly, one foot in front of the other. He places his hand onto the rock on his left and feels his way through the darkness. The passage bends to the left and as he turns his vision is restored by a burning torch high above him illuminating a spiral staircase. 

He ascends the staircase, passing by the entryway to the ramparts where the King had stood and continues up two more turns to a closed solid wooden door. He presses his ear to the door but hears nothing. Behind that door, he was told, was a circular room with an arrow-slit window and the gears for opening the great gate and the gate keeper himself. He knows better than to try the handle and instead, now knowing his destination, he retreats to the ramparts, positioning himself behind a pillar out of sight and waits. 

It is the duty of the gate keeper to warn of any threats to the mountain, including the threat that Thranduil will pose. Once the gate keeper leaves his post, he is to take his place and lock the door, opening the gate for Thranduil’s army. The opening of the gate should make the King yield as his army is halved but Thranduil had warned of Thorin’s stubbornness and the potential bloodshed it may bring. 

The pillar offers him sanctuary and there he waits, listening for Thranduil’s arrival which he promised would be loud and obtrusive. He cannot approach with a fanfare or his intent will be mistaken and the gate keeper will not leave his post. He must approach in an act of war with armed soldiers in formation and burning torches held by angry villagers from Dale. 

Strangely it is not Thranduil he hears first but the frantic footfalls of the gate keeper hammering down the stairs onto the ramparts. He passes by him, blinded by fear as he yells for the king and guards. Discreetly he makes his way up the stairs, then once out of sight, he runs up the steps to the very top and pushes open the door that was still ajar and shuts it after himself. He turns the many locks and lowers the heavy wooden block as extra precaution before walking over towards the window and looks out. 

Thranduil does indeed make an imposing figure sitting astride a great brown elk with antlers larger than his arm span, while dressed in silver armour. Beorn has taken his other form and the great brown bear is by Thranduil’s right as King Bard sits upon a white horse to his left. They stop a fair distance from the gate and he soon realises it is because they intend to charge once he opens it. 

“I did not expect a visit.” A loud booming voice sounds in the heavy silence. 

“King Thorin, you are charged with treason, surrender now and open the gate and no harm shall befall your people.” Thranduil states calmly and though he believes it to be his imagination he could have sworn Thranduil winked directly at him but surely he cannot be seen from such a small window. 

“And who judges me, you?” Thorin asks incredulously. 

“I’ll give you to the count of five.” Thranduil warns somewhat belittling. 

“You could give me to the count of ten and my answer will be the same.” 

“One.”

“This is a holy place!”

“Two.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“Three.” 

“That you would come armed to my door!”

“Four.”

“And threaten my people!” His eavesdropping is interrupted by the turning of the door handle and the dull thuds as someone tries to shoulder it open.

“Is someone in there?” A voice demands, knocking on the door. He gives no answer and the knocking becomes frantic. “Damn! Thorin! Intruder!”

“Five!” Thranduil announces loudly for him to hear and so he begins to wind the handle opening the great gate. 

“The gate is opening! The gatehouse is compromised. Fall back, get the children to safety. Get the remaining army in formation, I shall lead the charge.” He hears Thorin command but those were not the words of a selfish tyrant. He shrugs and locks the gears into place. Perhaps they were the words of a selfish tyrant, how was he to know, having never met a tyrant before. He looks out of the window once more and sees a third of the army standing stoically, unnecessary. 

He allows some time to pass before he sheds the prayer robe like a snake skin and leaves the safety of the room. The staircase is clear and so he begins his descent and turns to walk out along the ramparts. He can’t stomach to see the carnage he has wrought and he cravenly keeps his eyes ahead refusing to see what his actions have led to. Thranduil had no use for him now, they were to meet in the throne room and discuss the terms of surrender with the toppled king. 

He tries to remember Thranduil’s directions to tune out the clashes of swords and the howls of pain below. It isn’t too far, across the ramparts, up the stairs, four turns and then down a hall to a golden door. He repeats the words in his mind as he follows them, muting all else around him. He encounters no one on his journey as he was told would be the case. The army was halved, all abled body dwarves would be summoned to protect their home. 

He verbally repeats the directions to chase away those thoughts and when his voice echoes in the vast hallway he quiets himself and looks towards the golden door. It is small in comparison to the gate and he would wager no bigger than his round door at home. As he approaches, he can see the shape of a dragon blistering out of the gold, its eye defined by a ruby as red as blood as its jaws clamp over the door handle. Its wings are outstretched as if in flight but its body is coiled beneath it like a snake and becomes indistinguishable from the mountains below. He twists the handle and the door comes open and he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The floor seemingly falls away becoming one single path towards a great stalagmite. The size and shape of it is an anomaly as it rises from the ground seemingly outstretched, reaching towards the apex of the mountain. A throne has been carved into in and something shines above it swirling with enchanting colours. He’s walking along the path before he realises, mesmerised by the light and only brought to his senses by hearing the sounds of violence from below. 

All becomes silent as he is halfway across and he breathes a sigh of relief that the king had finally yielded. The throne, he finds, is simply a chair with the rock smoothed for sitting. Had it not been for the golden geometric design housing a beautiful gem above it, he would think it only a chair and nothing else. The gem itself is magnificent and he finds himself edging closer just to see it in all its glory. Gems had never truly interested him but he would vouch that this particular stone had no equal on earth as it practically humiliates the two diamonds above and below it. 

Before he knows it, he is stood on the throne peering at the gem and reaching greedily for it. He traces the surface of it with his index finger finding it warm to the touch and shakes his head suddenly aware of his unacceptable actions. The fact he had mounted the throne unaware is troubling and he places a steady hand against the rock only to feel something press in by the heel of his hand. He looks up just in time to capture the loosened treasure as it falls from its containment. He stares at it in his hands unsure what to do when he hears voices from just beyond the door. 

In panic he leaps down from the throne and shoves the shiny gem into his coat pocket as the door comes open and King Bard and Beorn in his human form walk in side by side, stooping momentarily to pass through the door. They are immersed in their conversation and he is thankful for it as he imagines he looks wild-eyed and suspicious. He looks down at his right pocket hoping the brilliant brightness of the gem does not shine through. His burgundy coat was made by the formidable Miss Miggins of Hardbottle and he has the upmost faith in her work, had to, because he could not afford to be wrong. 

Bard and Beorn cease their conversation as they reach him and Bard gifts him a charming smile in acknowledgement of his presence. There is no blood on him and he has to wonder if he had even drawn his sword. He does not look to inquire as the door opens once more and King Thranduil struts into the throne room back straight and head held high. There’s a commotion behind him as two elvin guards drag a dwarf backwards between them holding an arm each. The dwarf, who he assumes is King Thorin cannot find his feet and is literally dragged towards the throne, kicking his feet out trying to regain his footing on even ground. His own face falls at that, despite what he may have done, Thorin is still a king and should be treated as such. 

Thranduil comes to a halt and raises his pale right hand and the guards practically throw Thorin at his feet before taking their leave. The dwarven king is vexed as he scrambles to his feet, and as he turns to undoubtedly give Thranduil a piece of his mind, he sees his face for the first time and quickly turns away before discreetly looking once more. King Thorin is attractive, not that it matters of course and yet he finds himself captivated. His hair is long and black as coal and hangs in waves down his back. His eyes are as blue as the summer sky and his lips are the colour of the pink roses that grow in his garden and decorated by a short black beard. He mentally reprimands himself. King Thorin was not to be fawned over and he’s quite sure if he were to somehow hear his thoughts, he would not hesitate to put him down where he stood. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Thorin demands, voice harsh and growling. He’s not wearing a crown; he wonders if he had been. 

“You are found guilty of treason.” Thranduil informs him and he does a double take. Thorin was guilty only in the court of public opinion, he must be trialled as Thranduil said he would be. “We intercepted…” Thranduil goes on, walking forward hands clasped behind his back, enjoying the moment. His eyes stray to the throne and he suddenly turns around. “Where is it?” He demands. 

“Where’s what?” Thorin snaps back just as fiercely. 

“Though it suits you, do not play dumb. Where have you hidden the Arkenstone?” Thranduil misses it but he notices the panicked glance Thorin gave to the throne finding the Arkenstone was truly missing. It was only a moment and he is soon able to school his features into a smug expression. 

“Somewhere you’ll never find it.” Thorin says rather confidently considering he has no idea of the location given that it was in his pocket. Thranduil paces agitatedly. 

“Indeed?” Thranduil asks raising a thick eyebrow. “Rather smug for someone in your predicament. I could have you killed now but I am a fair king and I offer you a chance of redemption. Marry me.” Beorn and Bard share a look of confusion while his own eyes widen. This had not been discussed. 

“I would rather die.” Thorin replies defiantly while Thranduil laughs humourlessly. 

“Very well.” Thranduil draws his sword already stained with blood and raises it high above to deliver a killing blow causing him to lurch forward to stop him. His movements capture Thorin’s eye and as the dwarven king looks at him his face pales and he suddenly cowers away from the killing blow. 

“Wait!” He shouts holding his hands out to guard his own life. Thranduil stops and lowers his sword. “I will marry you.” Thorin begrudgingly agrees but his eyes keep returning to him. Thranduil does not seem to notice or care as he grasps the dwarf’s hand and kisses the back of it. 

“Guards!” Thranduil calls and the two elves re-enter the throne room. “Escort my fiancé to his chambers.” They attempt to take hold of the king again but he shrugs out of their grips and Thranduil allows it. Without handling, the dwarven king is escorted from the throne room throwing looks over his shoulder the entire time. He sees Thranduil smirk in satisfaction and realises the egotistical king did not see that Thorin’s heated stare was not directed at him. 

Those blue eyes were solely on the hobbit who was entirely out of his depth.


	3. The Lion of the Shire

The statue of King Durin the First has pride of place in the Great Hall. Standing at thirty foot, the brass statue depicts Durin with his hands raised to the sky and a look of sorrow etched onto his face. It’s as chilling as it is beautiful and it is just as confusing. Dwarves do not celebrate defeat, no one does and yet here this monument stands immortalising such an event. They cannot be proud of it. Making it from brass, the cheapest of the three red metals assures him of this. Yet the craftsmanship is quite excellent and the attention to detail is astounding from his long regal nose to the teardrop delicately etched onto his cheek. 

He takes a step back to marvel at the sheer size of it and almost collides into two elven guards. He holds his hand up and apologises and is surprised when the blond-haired guards bow their heads in respect and place a fisted hand against their chest. 

“The Lion of the Shire.” They speak as one and continue on their journey while he turns back to the statue. 

“The Lion of the Shire,” a familiar voice sounds beside him. “That is what they are calling you.” He turns his head to the left and tilts his head back to look at King Thranduil. 

“Lions are associated with courage, there was nothing courageous in what I did.” He replies self-depreciatively and lowers his gaze. 

“I disagree.” Thranduil says solemnly forcing him to eye him sceptically even as the elf keeps his eyes forward. “You left the only home you’ve ever known to fight in a war you wanted no part in. If that is not courageous, I do not know what is.” He opens his mouth only to close it as words fail him. When said like that it did indeed sound courageous but he did not feel courageous. 

“You and I have not always seen eye to eye.” Thranduil goes on and turns towards him. “And I did not fail to see your reaction when I asked Thorin to marry me.” 

“I was taken by surprise.” He replies sternly as he had been led under false pretences. 

“I understand and I apologise for my duplicitous actions. I should have trusted in you all as you all trusted in me but alas, I was a coward. I feared you may misconstrue my intentions if I had been honest. You see Bilbo, I would have never harmed Thorin, Erebor must have a dwarven king or suffer the wrath of six kingdoms. Thorin had to be dealt with, I did not lie about that but a trial would be too public. He must be tamed.” If his expression showed disgust it cannot be helped as likening Thorin to a wild animal was barbaric. “As his husband, I shall bring him to heel. His act of treachery shall go unspoken and his reputation need not be besmirched.”

“Why such allowances for a traitor?” He asks genuinely confused. 

“For peace, Bilbo.” Thranduil answers plainly and he concedes with a nod of his head. If word had gotten out that Erebor had fallen, then whole armies would march upon them, fearless of the Gods and sick with gold lust. “I do have some news that should cheer you.” 

“Oh?”

“I received word today, Mithran-Gandalf,” he corrects. “Comes on swift wings, to congratulate us, I’m sure.” He pauses then as if to collect his thoughts. “You said you were friends, did you not?” Thranduil asks prying. 

“A friend of the Shire, I did say and a dear friend of mine, he is.” 

“Excellent.” Thranduil smiles, appeased. “Can I be so bold as to ask for one more favour from you?” He nods, not trusting his words. “I would like his blessing on my union with Thorin, could you possibly put in a good word for me? He values your opinion after all.” 

He gives no answer right away and instead ponders what had been asked of him. Thranduil had been duplicitous, but he must admit, if he had said his intention was to marry Thorin, then the others would not have offered their aid so freely. His deceit was justified but it was still deceit.

He looks at the king to truly get the measure of the elf. There is no branch crown atop a long straight white-blond haired head and the silver armour has been cast aside in favour of a beautiful silver high-collared robe. His posture is still stiff and there appears to be tension in his right arm as his long fingers are clenched tightly around a roll of parchment. It is his eyes that are most striking. Framed by thick black furrowed eyebrows that are in stark contrast to his pale angular face, the cerulean crystal orbs no longer chill him with an icy stare. Instead he sees fear in them and from that simple emotion honesty is expressed both through his eyes and his facial features. Had he only been this expressive in the Greenwood he would have never questioned his motives. 

“I will ask for his blessing but I cannot guarantee that he will listen to me. When will he arrive, a month or so?” Thranduil shakes his head. 

“An hour at most.” The answer confuses him as Thranduil had said Gandalf could not be called upon in time when he had asked. “He shall arrive upon the back of the King of the Eagles.” Thranduil informs him as though aware he was beginning to doubt him. 

He nods, satisfied with the answer. “He always did like to make an entrance.” He jests to lighten the mood. 

“Indeed,” Thranduil concedes. “I will speak with him first and then he is to take tea with you. When you are called upon, I ask you to escort Thorin to the Great Hall and introduce him to Gandalf as my fiancé. He awaits you now in the King’s chambers.” A chill runs down his spine as he remembers the storm in those blue eyes. “Do not fear,” Thranduil eases noticing the worry etched on his face. “He is heavily guarded and will pose no threat to you.” Thranduil waves someone over and he hears the clang of metal as an armoured guard approaches. “Take Bilbo to the King’s chamber.”

“My King,” the guard says in recognition of his instructions and presses a fisted hand against his chest and bows before turning sharply. Thranduil waves his hand, bidding him to follow and so he does, while quietly asking himself how he had gotten into this mess.

The trek is long from the Great Hall to the bed chambers and it is one done in silence. Normally he would talk an elf’s ear off as he had so many questions about their language and culture but the butterflies in his stomach still his tongue. He chose not to think why he felt that way, even when the answer was painfully obvious. 

He thought King Thorin’s bedchamber would be isolated but instead he is led down a hallway reserved for the royals and finds three different garrisons outside three different doors. “Who are in there?” He asks pointing to the two doors further up the hall on the left next door to each other. 

The guard does not answer him and as they approach a heavily guarded door on the right, the garrison place their hands against their chest and bow in his presence. He fidgets awkwardly unsure how to respond and breathes a sigh of relief as he is ushered inside the room. 

“The Lion of the Shire!” Many voices praise once he steps into the room and a garrison of twenty plus guards bow in reverence. 

“The Lion of the Shire.” A deep voice scoffs. He longs to ignore him, knowing exactly who it was, but he finds himself taking the bait and looking over to the defeated king. He stands mid-way in the room to the left in front of a dressing table adorned in golden armour with a sleeveless black-furred surcoat detailed with golden thread. His crown is a circlet of gold depicting two ravens made from onyx in flight and completing the circle beak to beak. His arms are folded in front of his chest and his pale lips are curved into a sneer. “Nice name for an imposter.” He does ignore that. “Halfling.” He’s not sure if that was said to get his attention or was just a slur. It certainly sounded like a slur. “Thief.” Definitely a slur. “Snake in the grass.” He looks back at him vexed only to be met with a smirk. “Do I have your attention now?” 

“My name is Bilbo.” Thorin laughs at that. 

“You say it like I care.” 

“Of course you don’t care.” He snaps back. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” For a moment he thinks he had finally silenced that vicious tongue until Thorin smiles menacingly. 

“Did I hurt your feelings?” He asks far too joyously for his liking that he finds himself once more questioning how he had gotten himself into this mess. 

“I do not know why I expected better behaviour from a tyrant.” 

“Nor I from a burglar.” His face pales at that and instinctively he presses his hand against his pocket where the stone was kept. He was a fool for keeping it. “How did you come by one of our most scared robes?” Thorin asks and he releases the breath he had been holding fearing he was speaking of the Arkenstone. 

“Just be thankful that I did.” 

“Lion of the Shire,” Thorin says sardonically with a shake of his head. He chooses to ignore that final jab and instead looks around the room. The guards take up most of the space pointedly ignoring their heated words forcing his eyes to inevitably look towards the bed. It’s a large golden framed canopy bed with furs covering blood red sheets. He can’t help but think of Thorin laid there naked between the sheets, raven hair fanned out on the pillows as his head is thrown back in ecstasy as he takes himself in hand. 

He quickly shakes his head and looks away banishing the thought only to find blue eyes watching him intently. He watches nervously as Thorin turns to look at what had his attention only to turn back with an amused smile, wink his eye and laugh in his face. 

He finds the mocking laughter far worse than his words and he practically runs from the room when a knock sounds upon the door. He can’t get too far away from him unfortunately as it was his duty to introduce Thorin to Gandalf. Something Thorin realises and capitalises on as he walks directly behind him, kicking at his heels to make him trip. The guards are unaware of the king’s shenanigans until he manages to get his boot under his foot causing him to stagger forward. Only then do they create an elven shield around Thorin which thankfully separates him from the childish king. 

The Great Hall is almost at capacity with an even number of elves and dwarves. He’s unsure where to go until his name is said loudly and he turns to find Gandalf stood at the back of the hall with his arms extended in welcome. He makes his way through the throngs of people, apologising as he goes.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf greets again as he approaches. 

“Gandalf,” he says in welcome and steps into his embrace, hugging him tightly around the middle and pressing his face against the scratchy grey robes while the wizard stoops to accommodate his size. They part amicably and he takes a step back as Gandalf turns his attention to the petulant king. 

“No need to ask who you are. You have your grandfather’s bearing, I knew Thror.” 

“Funny, he never mentioned you.” Thorin spits nastily and his own jaw drops in response. The dwarf had no respect for anyone. 

Gandalf laughs inside a cough appearing unbothered by the king’s tone. “You are more like him than you will ever know.” He says cheerfully leaning on his wooden staff to get a better look at him as if seeing a friend where an enemy stood. Realising he is making Thorin uncomfortable, Gandalf leans back and runs dirty fingers through his knotted grey beard thoughtfully. He has never been the best dressed person in Middle Earth. He chooses the same grey robes and the old haggard hat that once stood on end but now hangs as lifelessly as his ratty grey hair. Even so, his appearance is more unkempt than usual and his robes smelt musky and damp. 

Gandalf turns towards him and he is held in his gaze by piercing blue eyes securitising him from beneath the brim of a sodden hat. “Now why do you parade the King of Erebor before me like a prized stallion?” 

“King Thranduil desires to marry him and it is my dear wish that you will bless their union.” 

“Hmm.” It is a noise rather than a response and Gandalf turns to look at Thorin and then to him but their eyes do not meet as he looks over his head. “If King Thranduil desires my blessing,” Gandalf says rather loudly and he can guess who his eyes are upon. “Then he can ask me himself!” He snaps. “Now enough of this nonsense, you wouldn’t happen to have some Old Toby would you? The blasted wind took what was left of mine.” 

“Of course, Gandalf, and we’ll have some tea.” 

“Finally, someone with some manners around here.” Gandalf says pointedly again and turns towards a golden throne that hadn’t been in the hall earlier. It appeared Thranduil had been accommodating despite what Gandalf had said since the chair beside it is simple oak. “Come, let us talk.” The garrison of guards stand by Thorin as he follows Gandalf to the throne and watches him take a seat before settling in the oak chair. “When news reached me of this invasion, I was surprised to hear your name.” 

“I was hoping my actions would spare any unnecessary losses.” Gandalf places a hand on his knee in comfort.

“A good man would have done as you did, acting boldly and courageously to bring victory and spare lives.” He removes his hand and leans forward, invading his personal space. “A great man would have stopped the attack from happening. A great man would have stopped when he knew it was wrong, no matter who was ordering it. The hobbit that I know, the one who inspires courage in me was capable of being more than just good but of being great.” He nods his head slowly hearing his worst fears said aloud. 

He opens his mouth only to close it refusing to give excuses for his actions. He had acted against his heart and there was little he could do to rectify the situation. He looks away crestfallen and sees an elf with a silver tray holding a teapot and cups. “Some tea?” He changes the subject and waves the elf over and he sets the tray down on a glass table situated between the two seats. 

“Please, I’m parched.” Gandalf says and routes through his pockets possibly looking for his pipe. He pours the tea adding milk to both and five sugars for Gandalf, despite the sacrilege and stirs before passing the cup to Gandalf. He leaves his for a moment while he checks his left pocket searching for his pipeweed, only to find it empty. 

“I seem to have misplaced my pipeweed,” he says apologetically while Gandalf sets down his now empty cup. 

“It is not my day today,” Gandalf says in good humour and coughs against his hand. “So, tell me, how did you get caught up in all of this?” He asks coughing once more. 

“I think I was ousted.” 

“Is that Lobelia woman still giving you trouble?” Gandalf coughs again. 

“I’m sure she’ll be kicking herself once she finds out where I am.” Gandalf does not respond and instead coughs fitfully. “Gandalf?” He questions watching his friend’s face become red. “Gandalf?” He calls louder in fear as Gandalf clutches his throat. “Somebody help!” He screams as Gandalf tumbles from the throne and claws desperately at his neck. “Somebody please!” 

“It’s the tea! Bilbo has poisoned Gandalf!” A familiar voice accuses as he drops to his knees trying but failing to help. “Arrest him!” Hands grab at him and pull him away from his dying friend.

“Unhand me! Gandalf! Will someone please help him!” He kicks his legs but the elves who hold him are too strong for him and simply lift him between them. 

“He’s dead.”

“Nooooo!” He wails like a wounded animal as he sees Gandalf laid still, face red and blue eyes widened in horror as foam froths from his parted lips. He’s too shocked to cry and the room begins to spin as his head lolls back. All he can hear is screaming, his own and others as the dwarves revolt against the elves. He’s dropped to the floor as his guards are ambushed and he feels someone tugging at his arm. 

“Get up! Halfling! Use your feet!” His vision still spins as he gazes at the multiple dwarven kings pulling him to his feet. “Snap out of it!” A large heavy hand strikes his cheek and it strangely grounds him bringing him back to awful reality. “Move!” Thorin pulls him forcefully aside as a sword lunges into the place he once stood. With a clash of steel, Thorin unarms and then dispatches the elf and takes his arm again. “Come with me.” He isn’t given a choice as the king pulls him along further into the mountain. 

“Shouldn’t we be going the other way?” He asks realising they were moving further and further away from the only exit.

“Shut up!” Thorin hisses as he drags him up countless flights of stairs, through a labyrinth of tunnels and finally into a hidden narrow passageway that leads to a dead end. Thorin leaves him there in the darkness only to return with a burning torch and a glower. “The dwarves have been defeated once more.” He tells him gravely. 

“What are we going to do?” He asks, panicked. “Surrender?” He squeaks as it appears to be the only alternative. 

“Surrender now and we both die.” 

“As opposed to dying in here?” He doesn’t mean to have a smart mouth but Thorin had literally backed them into a corner. 

Thorin’s eyes appear more menacing in the firelight and he watches him produce a large iron key from around his neck. “I die on my own terms.” 

“If there’s a key, there must be a door!” He says excitedly while Thorin rolls his eyes and heaves out a sigh.

“You defeated us?” He shakes his head ruefully while he can only take the insult on the chin. 

“Let’s go.”

“We can’t, the sun is still up. We leave at sundown.” 

“How do we know if it will be safe?” 

“I have eyes in the sky.”


	4. Smaug

The secret door is partially open as Thorin sits by it vigilantly, watching the sun fade from the sky. Intermittently, a raven will pass through and hop towards the King, chittering excitedly and his chirps were echoed by Thorin’s. He had thought Thorin was just mimicking the noise as his mother once did but on closer inspection, he can see that the two are communicating. Eyes in the sky, of course. The King even had ravens depicted on his crown. He wonders why Gandalf had never told him that dwarves could talk to the birds. 

The thought of his friend causes him to sob bitterly into his hands. He was haunted by those blue eyes that were staring at him accusingly. His oldest friend, his greatest friend, had needed him and he had done nothing. 

“Stop your snivelling!” Thorin snaps and then climbs to his feet looking through the crack of the door once more. “It’s almost time.” He places his hands upon the rock to his left and begins to feel his way along the wall. He can only watch him quietly as he dries his tears. Thorin doesn’t care about his pain, they aren’t friends and yet the dwarf had saved his life and deserved a little bit of his trust. 

Thorin pauses and knocks on the rock twice before drawing his fist back and punching the wall. He recoils in horror and brings his hands up to his face covering his eyes. When he hears no sounds of distress, he parts his fingers and sees a hollowed space where a false wall had been. Thorin reaches inside and retrieves a bag that is full of clothing and chimes with coins. 

“You’ve been expecting this?” He asks as Thorin discards his crown and removes the armour from his arms. 

“I knew this day would come.” Thorin answers while shrugging off his sleeveless surcoat and removing the golden breastplate. “I live in a mountain full of gold.” He bends down to undo the leather bindings that holds the golden armour to his legs while he ponders what he had just said. Erebor was the richest kingdom in Middle Earth but it was the holiest of places that should make it immune to an attack. Should, but hadn’t he attacked? The King had a point. 

Thorin finally removes the last of the cumbersome armour and rights himself, standing only in boots, leather trousers and a black shirt. Without thought to propriety, Thorin pulls off his shirt leaving him bare-chested in his presence and despite his best efforts he cannot look away. In the torchlight the King’s skin shines golden as he watches the light dance along the contours of his sweat-slick body. His gaze travels lower, down washboard abdominals to the defined V-shape of his hips revealed by the low-hung trousers. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he looks up finding emotionless blue eyes watching him. 

“See something you like Hobbit?” The King taunts and a blush instantly stains his cheeks as he turns away in embarrassment. Thorin chuckles humourlessly and wipes his chest and beneath his arms with the black shirt before discarding it and pulling on a similar red one. He pulls a sleeveless black leather surcoat inlaid with chainmail from the bag and puts it on, buttoning the two brass buttons at his mid-section before reaching into the bag once more. This time he retrieves a long-sleeved fur coat and puts it on, buttoning it before approaching the door. “It’s time,” he says opening the door wider, collecting his sword and stepping out into the fresh air. 

He follows behind him curious to know where they were given that they went up rather than down, and finds himself eye to eye with the statue of Durin that was carved into the mountain. He imagines the view is breath-taking, overlooking Dale and Long Lake and far beyond but the sun is fading hampering his vision. A raven awaits them on a rock, and shares some words with Thorin before flying off to the highest peak, Ravenhill. 

“It’s safe, the guards have returned and the mountain is on lock down. They think we are still inside, which gives us our opportunity. We go down the stairs and then keep in the shadow of the mountain heading east and then into the woods. Do you understand?” He nods dumbly. He understands the directions but he cannot fathom why Thorin is helping him. 

Refusing to look a gift horse in the mouth, he follows behind the King as he descends down the steps and has to remind himself not to reach for the dwarf. It isn’t steep but he feels vertigo all the same and he keeps a stabilizing hand on the rock as they steadily walk down the stairs. 

Thorin pauses at the bottom and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “It’s too risky to pass by the gate, we’ll go the other way and make a camp in the woods.” He agrees with a nod of his head not entirely sure that Thorin saw him but the dwarf was certain he would follow. They keep their backs to the mountain, safe in its shadow before they are able to run into the woods. 

“We’ll stay to the west,” Thorin directs breathlessly as they continue to run.

“We’re losing the light!” he complains as his feet are pricked by thorns. 

“The moon will guide our way, not much further now.” Begrudgingly he follows him deeper into the woods and breathes a sigh of relief when he finally slows. “We are deep enough to avoid discovery and the trees are dense so we can have a small fire.” They have no food to cook but he would appreciate the heat a fire would provide. He was not dressed for the wilds of the east and he was increasingly self-conscious about how he must appear to Thorin. 

He creates a firepit while Thorin collects wood and he finds that they make a good, if somewhat reluctant team. When the wood is collected, he sits back in awe as Thorin lights the fire. He’s underestimated him as some part of him believed the King would be spoiled and pampered and beyond the mountain he would be out of his depth. Unfortunately, the only one out of their depth was himself. 

“Did you hear that?” Thorin whispers looking off to his right. He follows his line of sight but can see and hear nothing. Despite the silence, Thorin gets to his feet keeping a watchful eye one the darkness of the forest. He seems spooked and it is enough to get him to his feet as the King approaches him. “We are not safe here,” Thorin whispers to him making his heart hammer in his chest. “I cannot guarantee your safety,” he continues regretfully. “This may be our last night.” His voice changes, deeper, huskier and he looks up at him realising how close they were standing. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.” He tries to deny the accusation but his stammered words are garbled nonsense. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” Those desperate words are said against his lips and he is lost in the intimacy of the moment, barely recognizing himself as he returns Thorin’s whisper of a kiss with a real one. 

Thorin’s hands are on him in an instant seemingly everywhere, patting, searching. He attempts to still his rough touch only to have the kiss end abruptly as hate-filled eyes burn into his very soul. “Murderer!” Thorin accuses shoving him back. “Give back what you stole, rat!” He ducks then as a sword swings to decapitate him. Thorin advances on him, swinging again causing him to fall to the ground. He begins to crawl backwards desperately as Thorin strikes the earth meaning to kill him. 

“Stop, please!” He whimpers as tears sting his eyes. His words are wasted as Thorin continues his pursuit and he is forced to crawl along the ground like a wounded animal. It’s degrading and he’s terrified. Not knowing what spiked the King’s temper makes it worse. Why save him to only kill him himself? He continues backwards until his left shoulder hits a boulder and he cries out in pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, prepared for the killing blow but it does not come. Slowly he opens his eyes to find Thorin looking down at the ground to the pretty rock, the Arkenstone, that had fallen from his pocket and it all becomes clear. 

He grabs the rock as Thorin is caught in its spell and as the King comes to, preparing to strike he rises the stone above the rock he had collided with. 

“Stop or I’ll smash it, I swear to the Gods!” He threatens crazy with fear. 

Realising his sincerity, Thorin casts his sword away and drops to his knees bowing his head in surrender. It is surreal and it makes him look at the rock he was prepared to smash in a new light. Thorin knew all along that he had the Arkenstone and it is not the first time he had surrendered himself for the protection of it. He was willing to die by Thranduil’s blade but he must have seen the stone was in his pocket as he lunged forward and so he had pleaded for his own life. 

“What is this?” He demands. It was no pretty bauble since Thranduil appeared vexed by the absence of it. 

“As if you don’t know murderer.” 

“I didn’t kill Gandalf.”

“Like I care, one less enemy.” 

“Gandalf was not your enemy. Before he died, he told me that we were wrong for invading Erebor. In my heart I knew it was wrong. I begged Thranduil to send word to Gandalf and he said he could not be reached…because he wasn’t sent for.” He finishes in a whisper as realisation begins to dawn on him. “I’ve been such a fool.” The King lifts his head to look at him questioningly. “You were not purchasing an army, were you?” 

“No.” Thorin answers sincerely. 

“Gandalf died because he knew that. The tea was poisoned to frame me for his murder since I had served my purpose. It was Thranduil.” He shakes his head and knocks a tear from his eye. “He suggested the tea, making me think it was Gandalf’s idea. He was the one to accuse me of poisoning Gandalf. I knew the voice sounded familiar but I did not make the connection.” He pauses as his grief becomes too much and he sobs into his hands. 

“You really didn’t kill Gandalf,” Thorin mutters in stunned awe. 

“I wouldn’t. He was…to me he was…he was my friend.” He finishes struggling to say the right words and finding them disappointing as they did not adequately describe the bond they had shared. “This rock cost Gandalf his life, I want to know what it is.” He demands as his sadness gives way to anger. 

“Answer me one question and I will tell all.” He nods his consent. “Why did you invade Erebor?” 

“Thranduil received word…”

“No.” Thorin cuts him off. “Why did _you_ invade Erebor?”

“Honestly? Because my involvement spared the most lives.” Seemingly pleased with his answer, Thorin gets back to his feet. 

“Come, sit with me by the fire.” He holds his hand out only to drop it as he realises he is still wary of him and begins to walk back to the fire, ignoring his sword that was thrown into the shadows. He follows hesitantly placing the stone back into his pocket and sits across the fire from him. “Elves were not the first creations of the Gods; dwarves were but a dispute in the heavens forced the dwarves to slumber in the rocks. There they lay dreaming of the injustice thrust upon them, turning them away from the Gods that had created them. When they awoke, the darkness that had surrounded them was inside their hearts. They denied the sun and embraced the darkness and began to dig. They found beautiful gems but it was never enough and they continued to dig becoming richer but never satisfied. When the famine came the dwarves’ stores were plentiful and they did not suffer but those that did came to the gates of Erebor begging for scraps and the dwarves fortified the doors and refused them. Hundreds died, some with their hands still attached to the door, their fingers worn down to the bone as they clawed for their own salvation. The Gods saw this and saw the darkness and greed inside the dwarves and decided to wipe clean the earth of such vile traits. It started in the tunnels, the walls shook as if the mountain itself had shivered and then an explosive of earth and a piercing roar sounded the arrival of the great winged serpent, Smaug. His armour was like tenfold shields, his teeth were swords and his claws were spears. The shock of his tail was like a thunderbolt while his wings were like a hurricane and his very breath was death. He killed wantonly and indiscriminately, breathing fire into tunnels and turning dwarves to ash. None were safe from his wrath as he wrought destruction through Erebor, leaving devastation in his wake. In the chaos, one dwarf, a child noble in heart but not in blood beseeched the Gods to spare the lives of the dwarves in exchange for his own life. Seeing that there was still good in the dwarves the Gods gave Smaug a heart. As the worm rose from the collapsed tunnels, wings outstretched reaching for the apex of the mountain from which he meant to flee, he suddenly felt the sorrow he had inflicted and the horror of what he had done turned the beast to stone. The child who had saved Erebor was named Durin and he became King and the first protector of the heart of the mountain.” 

He blinks owlishly as it was a lot to take in, rewriting the history that he knew. “You mean to tell me that I have a dragon’s heart in my pocket?” He asks uneasily and Thorin nods. “Why does Thranduil want it?” 

“The heart unites the seven kingdoms but in protection of the stone not in possession as folk have come to think. Thranduil believes that the Arkenstone is the ultimate power and it is but not in the way that he thinks. The heart has never been removed for longer than a day. Already the sands of time are against us. The longer the beast is without his heart, his guilt lessens and he will awaken remorseless and finish what he had started.”

“I’m so sorry that I took the stone.” He says remorsefully.

“Why did you?” Thorin asks genuinely curious and lacking the venom of their earlier exchange. 

“Thranduil told us all to meet in the throne room, I was there first and I saw it and the next moment I was before it, standing on the throne to be close to it. I was horrified by what I had done and I meant to climb down but I must have pressed something as the stone toppled out. I was beside myself with worry and I put it in my pocket as I heard the others approaching.” Thorin nods after listening intently. 

“The stone called to you. It knew it would be safe in your possession.” Thorin whispers amazed. “I was wrong about you, Bilbo.” His jaw slackens as the dwarf uses his name. “I am sorry for your loss. I did not know Gandalf but I know how it feels to lose a friend.” Thorin says sincerely. 

“Thank you,” he says wiping unshed tears from his eyes. “And maybe I’ve made a new friend?” He asks hopefully. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself Hobbit.” Thorin jests and they both share a laugh that was no longer at his own expense. 

“What are we going to do?” 

“Sleep now, I have a plan.”


	5. Ravenhill

When he awakens, he rolls onto his back and stretches his legs hearing his bones crack. The fire is out and as he sits up, he is surprised to see Thorin sat on a log, metres away. He checks his pocket and finds the Arkenstone is still there and looks back at the King.

“You’re still here.” He states bluntly and Thorin lifts his head. 

“You seem surprised.” 

“I am. I thought you would leave while I slept.” 

Thorin shrugs. “You may prove useful yet.” 

He laughs at that. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.” It was still an insult but playful rather than demeaning and it earns him a smile rather than a sneer. “Do we return to Erebor?”

“No, it’s too dangerous.”

“But the heart must be restored.” 

“Not while Thranduil reigns supreme. He would take the stone and use it, calling upon its power and thus awakening the beast. The mountain must be won back and when it is safe, the heart is to be returned and the beast wished to sleep forevermore.” 

“We’d need an army.” Thorin nods. 

“And I know just where to get one from, my cousin Dain is to the east…”

“Dain?” He interrupts with a sinking feeling. “Dain Ironfoot? Red hair, sagged aged face and a tusk woven into his ginger beard?” 

“Aye, that sounds like him.” Thorin says eyeing him suspiciously. 

“And he’s your cousin?” He asks surprised.

“I have many cousins.” Thorin replies with a shrug. 

“He may be your cousin but he is not your friend.” 

“Explain yourself.” Thorin growls testily. 

“It was Dain who intercepted your letter to Nori. It was that evidence that swayed King Bard’s decision to attack as well as the Master of the Lake. Dain and Thranduil both swore it was your signature.”

Thorin’s posture sags as he becomes crestfallen. “I have been betrayed.” 

“Does Dain not know about the dragon?” 

“Few do. There are none left from the Before days and history has been rewritten. Where is my army, my soldiers that left with the gold?” 

“Stranded on a boat on Long Lake and watched by lake men.” 

“Damn! I cannot call upon Roӓc or we risk discovery. We must go to Ravenhill, we will lose another day but it cannot be helped.” 

“Do we leave at nightfall?” 

“The way is too hazardous; we’d fall to our deaths. If we leave now, we’ll make good time.” It sounds silly climbing a mountain in broad daylight while they are on the run but he trusts Thorin, Gods knew why. He stands without complaint and Thorin seems taken aback by his agreeability to his reckless scheme. “I have truly underestimated you. I have never been so wrong about someone in all my life.” 

He stands a little taller at that confession. “Not even Thranduil?” 

“His proposal is not the first one I have rejected.” Thorin than stands up. “Perhaps the deadliest, but his character does not surprise me. I know greed when I see it.” 

“And Dain?”

“He has always been ruthless in his ambition. Sadly, his betrayal was inevitable and I feel the sting of it because I chose to believe that family would come first.” Thorin begins to walk and he follows him. 

“Forgive my asking but what does Dain gain from his alliance with Thranduil considering you were to be married and remain King.” 

“Beyond gold and gemstones Erebor is a profitable working mine, has to be or else the monthly blessings would bankrupt us. Due to the size of the mountain I can offer competitive rates while Dain cannot compete. I imagine Thranduil would close the mines and stop the monthly blessings, that way Erebor continues to prosper and the Iron Hills can double their rates.”

“But surely Thranduil would be your husband. Is not your word law?” 

“I would be his puppet, brought out on occasion to keep up appearances. When I am not needed, I would be locked away, or worse, forced to warm his bed. His army far exceeds mine due a foolish decision my ancestors made. He would use that against me to make me comply.” His own face pales at that admission. How the King can remain stoic speaking of potential horrors is astounding. Thorin turns to look over his shoulder as the silence begins to drag. “No need to fear Hobbit, I would not suffer for long, Smaug would awaken and free me of my torment.” 

“Don’t say that.” It unnerves him how Thorin can speak so freely of death. 

“Why, truth hurts? Or are you feeling guilt for your actions?” Thorin sneers reverting back to the dwarf that did not like him. 

“I said I was sorry.”

Thorin turns quickly and towers over him. “But are you though?” He demands with malice in his eyes. 

“I’m following you, aren’t I? Yesterday, today and even tomorrow. I’d follow you to the end of the earth, there and back again just to prove to you how sorry I am.” He’s ashamed of the tears that gather in the corners of his eyes but they give his words conviction.

Thorin steps back. “You’re not afraid.” He says thoughtfully. 

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m terrified.” He laughs nervously. 

“Of me?” He shakes his head.

“For you. What could have happened, what might still happen and what is yet to come. To know that I played a part in it breaks my heart. I’ve said I’m sorry but I haven’t asked for your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it.” Thorin steps forward again no longer threatening and with a careful hand he wipes away a tear that had spilt down his cheek. He lowers his head unable to meet the King’s eyes. He knows the touch was comforting and meaningless but his feelings for the dwarf were not as they should be. It was only a crush but ill-advised and it was certainly not reciprocated. 

Thorin’s hand moves beneath his chin and tilts his head up forcing him to meet his eyes. His heart hammers in his chest as he gazes at lips he knew the taste of. Perhaps there was cruelty in Thorin to torment him in this way. “You promise to follow me to the ends of the earth?” He nods dutifully.

“There and back again.” He swears once more as Thorin removes his hand and smiles appeased.

“Then follow me.” He instructs and begins to run. The idea of running didn’t appeal to him but he had given his word and so he takes off running after Thorin. 

It’s tiring but exhilarating running towards danger rather than from it and it helps him to ignore the hunger pains in his stomach. He does not wish to appear any lesser in Thorin’s eyes as his opinion of him already rests on a knife-edge. He cannot fault him and he should be satisfied that the King was willing to breathe the same air as him but still he is dissatisfied. He can never be Thorin’s equal and he holds no such delusions but to have a place in his heart…he shakes his head. That line of thinking made him no better than Thranduil. What could he possibly offer the King who had everything? 

They make it to the edge of the woods and Thorin calls out to the ravens in their language and is answered back. “It’s clear,” he tells him and moves forward but he takes hold of his arm cautiously. 

“Does Thranduil know the language of the ravens?” 

“Thranduil cares little for things he deems beneath him.” He moves forward but he stops him once more. 

“What of Dain?” 

“Dain remains in the Iron Hills pretending to be Erebor’s ally if you remember.” Thorin pauses. “Why all these questions?” He asks curiously. 

“I fear for you and I love hearing you talk.” He shrugs as his heart sinks at that confession, only to sink further as Thorin laughs at him. 

“That makes exactly one person.” Thorin says with a smile confusing him. 

“Sorry?” He asks at a loss. 

“You’re the only person I’ve met that loves to hear me talk. I’ve been told I go on more than I should.”

“Really?” He asks surprised. “All I’ve heard are curt replies.”

“Given the current circumstances, yes, but wait ‘til you get to know me.” It sounds innocent, could very well be innocent but the teasing tone sparks hope in his heart. “Come on.” They leave the safety of the forest and climb up the north side of Ravenhill out of sight of elven eyes in Erebor. It’s exhausting but thrilling and he’s quite sure he’s been pushed so far from his comfort zone and straight into madness. 

As they reach the peak of the mountain, he sees a dilapidated castle with burnt brick lurking in the distance. “We’ll make camp there.” Thorin says, following his line of sight. He says nothing but his expression speaks for him as the remnants of the castle are without a roof and there is barely enough wall left for adequate shelter. “I used to come here often.” Thorin says walking towards the monstrosity. 

“What was it?” He asks as he follows behind him. 

“A look-out tower for dragons. They found one.” He answers pointing towards the burnt husk of the tower. 

“I thought the only dragon was Smaug?” 

“Smaug is no mere dragon. He is the chiefest and greatest of calamities of our time. A hundred times the size of the worms that had the audacity to attack Erebor only to make their bed in Long Lake.” He follows Thorin into the building happy to learn that there was more than it seemed and some corridors remained intact. There was even a blackened stairwell with stone steps that Thorin climbed to speak to the flock of ravens that perched on the walls. He waits for him and continues to explore with his eyes as he does not trust his step. There’s chalk on the walls as if children have run amok but otherwise the place seems abandoned and covered in bird excrement making him despair of hobbit feet. 

“We can’t have a fire,” Thorin says behind him, startling him. “We’re too high up, the smoke will draw attention. Follow me.” He follows him down a corridor and then left into open space as the wall had collapsed inwards. A hole had been dug in the far right corner and they squeeze through and find themselves in what was once a corridor but now a room as the brick had caved in both sides. There’s enough light shining through the toppled brick to see their way around and he’s surprised to see more chalk on the walls. 

“Have there been children here?” He asks aghast. 

“Yes, two little rascals who never did as they were told.” He says it with a fond smile. 

“It was you.” Thorin nods and moves aside to reveal a stick figure drawn in chalk with long hair and a huge crown on its head and a name written beneath but in the language of the dwarves. There’s another drawing, equally as childish but drawn by a different hand and another name beneath. “And who is that?” He asks pointing towards the picture and sees the sadness in Thorin’s eyes. 

“My best friend.” He answers quietly and takes a moment to stare at the drawing while trying to rein in his emotion. “My brother,” he says after a long pause. “Frerin.” He pauses again. “He died.” He didn’t have to share that information as his expression spoke of sorrow and loss. “He just got sick,” Thorin continues with a shrug as if trying to make sense of it all. “I didn’t say goodbye, I didn’t think I’d have to.” 

“Shall we find somewhere else to sleep?” 

“I thought you liked to hear me talk?” Thorin teases. 

“Not if it hurts your heart.” 

“My heart was broken long before you came along.” The silence becomes heavy and awkward. “I miss my brother.” Thorin confesses as if to atone for his melancholy. “It’s a shame he died because I could have married him off to Thranduil, it’s what he deserves.” He looks at the King questioningly. “Thranduil, I mean. Frerin was like a lit fuse and his temper could rival mine. He liked the outdoors and trees and blonds.”

“What about you?” He asks timidly.

“I like the outdoors and trees too.” Thorin answers evasively, watching him intently and their mutual staring is ended by the rumbling of his stomach. He clutches his belly and looks away embarrassed. The silence stretches and becomes heavy again, weighted with anticipation of an unflattering response. “I’m starving.” Thorin confesses catching him by surprise. He looks at him cautiously wondering if his confession was some elaborate scheme to make a mockery of him. Child of the kindly West, not fit for purpose, lost out in the wild and out of his depth. He’s heard it before; he’s thought it himself but strangely Thorin does not say it. “I thought I would be dining with my cousin this day and I was ill-prepared.” 

“Was I not in your plans?” 

“I meant to kill you in the woods.” Thorin answers straight-faced. He appreciates the honesty. 

“And here we are exchanging stories of our childhoods.” He says to lighten the mood. 

“I can change my mind again, Hobbit.” He laughs at that knowing it was said in jest. He liked Thorin’s humour, even if it was a little on the dark side. “I suppose we could eat snow. That would quench our thirst and hopefully abate the hunger.” He reaches through one of the gaps and collects a handful of snow and brings it to his lips. He turns away quite convinced he was becoming singularly obsessed with the King’s lips and collects his own handful of snow. 

It does the trick but not without consequences. He’d been so busy before he barely felt the cold but now it’s as if he is freezing from the inside out. He wasn’t dressed for the weather; his feet were bare as was the way with hobbits and his trousers were three-quarter length. His white shirt was thin, his gold waistcoat no better and he thought if not for Miss Miggins’ mighty stitchwork on his burgundy coat, he may have perished some time ago. 

“It’s getting dark.” Thorin says. “We’ll sleep now and have an early start in the morning.” He nods, without the sun there was little more they could do so he chooses a place where the wind bites less and curls on his side. “Sleep well, Master Hobbit.” Thorin says, taking his coat off and draping it over himself. “On the morrow supplies await us at the bottom of the mountain.” He cannot respond for fear his teeth will chatter. He tries to close his eyes to encourage sleep but his breath comes in short sharp pants as his body trembles making it impossible. 

“Enough!” Thorin grumbles. “Come here.” Reluctantly he crawls over towards the King and is startled as he lifts his coat welcoming him to share his warmth. “Stop dithering!” Thorin reprimands and so he accepts his invitation and lies facing the King beneath his coat. “Sweet Mahal Hobbit, you are like ice.” Thorin complains as he accidently touches him by laying so close. To his surprise, Thorin captures both his wrists and brings his hands towards his mouth and blows on them to warm the stiff digits. He can only swallow nervously as a fire starts low in his belly, chasing the coldness away. He can’t take his eyes off the King as he watches the lips he’s become enamoured with so close to his fingertips. In a moment of madness, he touches the lips he longs to taste and feels them gently purse beneath his touch as if to bestow a secret kiss. It is a moment he could almost believe he imagined as Thorin then takes his hands into his own. “Better?” He asks in a voice like rolling thunder and all he can do is nod in reply not trusting his voice. 

He's unsure of what is happening between them and he’s reluctant to break the spell of whatever it may be with wasted words. Thorin does not release his hands and instead holds them within his own against his chest. He’s so much bigger than himself, not just in size but in heart and courage. He’d be honoured to burn in his light just as much as if he were to dwell in his shadow. Thorin is all-consuming and he is a victim of his own heart. He continues to stare into blue eyes as the light fades from the sky and they are cloaked in darkness warmed by a fur coat and a hidden touch.


	6. North

He awakens warm and comfortable and for a moment he thinks he is in his own bed in Bag-End and his adventure was some horribly marvellous dream. His smile wanes as he awakens in a dilapidated cavern warmed by a fur coat and little else. He sits up in a panic and breathes a sigh of relief as Thorin is there in the cavern, his back to him as he sits facing the wall staring longingly at his brother’s self-portrait. His heart aches for him but Thorin does not court pity and if he were to give it, he imagines he’d be ridiculed for it. Instead he worries about the King’s exposed arms as he had left him with his coat. He gets up immediately and drapes the coat over the King’s stiff shoulders. 

“What are you doing?” He reprimands. “You’ll catch your death.” Thorin turns his head with a look of surprise and a small smile. 

“You needed it more than I.” Thorin answers with a shrug and puts his coat back on. The silence that blooms between them is comfortable, or would have been had it not been for his racing thoughts. He longs to ask him about last night but he could very well be overthinking what had happened. What if it had happened? Emotions were running high; it could very well have been a mistake. 

“Should we go?” He asks as a distraction from his thoughts. 

“Not yet. King Bard returns to Dale.” 

“That’s good isn’t it?” He asks confused. “He could release your army.” 

“Do not think Bard leaves Erebor without an alliance with Thranduil. The elf can be persuasive as you have seen.” 

“But you have always seen through him.” 

“Not always.” Thorin confesses taking him by surprise. “I did tell you this was not his first proposal.” His jaw drops in surprise. “Do not look at me like that, Hobbit, I was young once and I was flattered. He showered me in gifts, little white gems that shined like starlight and the most impressive weapons. He bought me my first bow. I learnt archery…” he trials off angrily, fists clenched and eyes narrowed as he is reminded of an old hurt. He can’t relate to matters of the heart because he had no experience. Instead he sits beside the King in comradery, offering his ear and support should he need it. 

“What did he do, if I may ask?” He amends, realising he is prying into private matters. 

“While we were courting, Thranduil would visit me every single day. He even took up residence in Dale. I asked him to come visit my brother when he got sick but he said no. I didn’t mind too much, I only wanted Frerin’s blessing, I thought I had all the time in the world. Then Frerin died and Thranduil refused to attend his funeral in case he ‘caught what Frerin had.’ Frerin wasn’t contagious and I really needed him. He’d become such a huge part of my life but as much as he meant to me, he resented the fact that Frerin meant far more. I called off the engagement, Thranduil demanded all of his gifts back and I returned them, after I had stamped on them. He made threats, said I’d be sorry and that we will be together. For the longest time I thought I was wrong, that I had just overreacted over the death of my brother because he said I had. He gets in your head. I know you haven’t asked for my forgiveness because you don’t think you deserve it but the truth is, you don’t need it because I don’t blame you. I know him and now you know him too.” 

“Did Bard not know of your engagement?” 

“Bard hadn’t been born.” He accepts that small mercy and then hears a flap of wings as a raven lands on the rubble. “It’s clear, let’s go.” He could only nod his consent not sure what else he could say after that revelation. He’s thankful that Thorin does not blame him, but he cannot lie and say he never blamed him because he did and he was right to. Thranduil may have led him down the garden path but he had entertained the thought that he was potentially the hero of the story when he was the villain all along. 

They crawl out of the shelter and leave the building and begin their decent down the mountain once more as the ravens’ circle above. Thoughts of lips against his fingertips keep the hunger pains away as he dwells on a kiss that may or may not have happened. Maybe he had only smiled against his touch and he had misconstrued the actions and if he did press a kiss to his fingers did it really mean all that much? It went no further and they had kissed before all tongue and teeth and heavy hands with murderous intent. Not their best moment, but it had happened. 

His plagued thoughts make him lag behind and Thorin stops to check on him deepening his shame. His own thoughts shame him, Thorin had been nothing but kind to him, after the attempted murder and he looks upon him as a conquest. The King cannot be conquered and certainly not but a lowly Hobbit from the West. To even entertain the thought of them together was ludicrous and yet here he was longing for the impossible, for a broken heart to mend and consider him, as if he had any right to Thorin’s love. 

Determined to bury his feelings, he focuses on the task at hand and makes his way down Ravenhill. Thorin takes his hand on the last rock but he chooses to believe it was a steadying hand rather than a romantic one and gives it no more thought than that. 

Thorin looks up as if looking for guidance from the Gods but as he cranes his neck to look above, he sees he is just looking at the ravens. “We’ll use the outer edge of the forest as cover. Go.” His hands are on him again, gentle but insistent, pushing on his upper back to guide him towards the trees. He takes off running to free himself of his touch and practically feels Thorin behind him as if he were an extension of himself. 

He runs faster and thinks of dragons and greed and the flawed logic of the Gods. To eradicate greed one must annihilate life. Everyone was greedy to some extent from a gold hoarding dwarf to a hobbit helping himself to a second cake. How was a dragon to understand the nuance between the two? It couldn’t. Thranduil had damned them all ironically for greed. 

Breathless laughter sounds behind him and as he slows his pace Thorin is able to run beside him. “I thought you would follow me to the ends of the earth, Hobbit, but it appears I’m following you.” That being said Thorin gains speed and races ahead of him throwing a look over his shoulder that dares him to keep up. He runs faster momentarily forgetting the reason why he was so far ahead was because he wished to be away from Thorin and now he actively chased him. 

He overtakes him, laughing victoriously, only to be overtaken again. It’s surreal. They are on the brink of an apocalypse and he’s in the woods playing with the King of Erebor. He chooses not to question it and enjoy the moment while it lasts. He takes the lead again and Thorin grasps his arm, and pulls him back, so he can overtake him. He gives an undignified squeak and attempts to play as dirty as the King by grabbing hold of his arm. Unfortunately, his strength is far less that of the King’s and instead of preventing Thorin’s momentum, he is swept up by it and practically dragged along. He should mind, but he doesn’t and neither does Thorin as he looks back at him seemingly impressed by his willingness to do anything to win. 

Thorin throws another look over his shoulder staring down at his hand clutching his wrist when it happens. A momentary lapse of concentration made the King step into a partially dug bolthole and lose his footing. In a panic, Thorin reaches out for him, holding his wrist much in the same way he was holding his but it does little to deescalate the problem and only brings him down with the King as they both tumble down the mountainside, rolling over each other and the hard ground. 

It is a Godsend that they had covered so much ground as they soon spill out onto even ground with himself landing on top of Thorin with the wind knocked out of them both. Once his head stops spinning, he remembers the Arkenstone and reaches into his pocket and releases a sigh of relief as he feels the heart whole in his hand. His breath catches in his throat as another hand slips into his coat pocket. He tries to think nothing of it, Thorin is the protector of the stone and yet his hand hasn’t reached for it. Instead his warm palm presses against the back of his hand, covering it entirely while his thumb strokes lazy circles on the back of his wrist. 

He does not know where to look but his eyes are drawn to the King’s lips once more. He alternates between looking at his wet pliant lips to his wide blue eyes wondering if this was a prelude to something. Thorin tilts his head back and he sees twigs and dirt in his hair. 

“There’s the ponies.” He follows his line of sight and sure enough there stand two tethered ponies, one brown and one grey. It was a redundant observation and he understands it to mean he should remove himself. He gets up slowly and winces in discomfort as his back aches in protest. Despite the pain he offers Thorin his hand and is pleasantly surprised when he takes it and he helps him up. 

He releases his hand and feels awkward once more staring down at his feet as Thorin passes by him, plucking a twig from his curls and gifting him a handsome rare smile before walking over to the ponies. He follows him at a distance unsure of his welcome. He’s overthinking again, but he can’t help it. 

“Aha!” Thorin cries victoriously after rummaging through a saddle bag. He approaches and is passed a square piece of flatbread. “Lembas bread.” Thorin tells him as he takes a small bite. It’s tasteless but filling. “Elven armies have marched for months on a single bite a day.” He takes the bread from him and takes a bite himself, showing appalling manners for a King. “We’ll have a proper meal tonight, it’s a two-day ride north from here, I’ll take the grey pony.” A flush of embarrassment warms his cheeks as he trips over his words as Thorin mounts his pony. He looks over to him with a puzzled expression. “You wanted the grey pony?” He shakes his head, while his cheeks burn brighter. 

“I-I can’t ride.” He admits ashamedly and Thorin sighs annoyed and climbs down. He can’t bring himself to look at him knowing he has disappointed him. 

“Right come here burden.” Thorin says after mounting his pony once more. He looks up to see he had removed the saddlebag and placed it upon the second pony’s back. Thorin extends a hand to him as he approaches. 

“It’s Bilbo.” He tells him as he takes his hand and is pulled up behind him. 

“Isn’t that what I said?” Thorin asks innocently while he sits behind him unsure where to place his hands. Hips would be far too low, chest far too high. Stomach, waist, how far should he wrap his arms around him. His hands drift just out of reach of the King as he determines where to hold him. With an aggravated sigh, Thorin grabs both of his hands and places them around his waist. “Sweet Mahal, Bilbo, you’d think we hadn’t slept together.” He splutters behind him, shocked by his wording and knows Thorin did it deliberately as he starts to laugh as he makes the pony walk and takes hold of the second pony’s reins. 

They ride all day and well into the evening. He takes the opportunity to pick the twigs and leaves from Thorin’s hair and at some point, when the sun had begun to fade and the cold crept in, he had found himself pressed to Thorin’s back, warmed by his coat. The King had said nothing of his actions and instead used his own hand to warm his numb fingers that were twitching against his stomach. 

When it became difficult to see, Thorin stopped and dismounted and helped him down without word. He had collected firewood and made a small camp while Thorin fed and tethered the ponies and retrieved supplies from the saddlebags. He had chosen the salted red meat and nothing else and the smell of it cooking over an open fire made them reckless with hunger and they both ate theirs rare. 

The explosion of taste on his tongue has him tearing at the meat and shoving more of it into his mouth. It only occurs to him that he must look like a savage animal as he noisily enjoys his meal when he feels eyes upon him. He finishes the last bite and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks sheepishly across the fire where Thorin sits watching him. 

“I’m sorry, as you can tell, I enjoyed that.” 

“I could tell.” Thorin agrees but his stare never wavers and begins to unnerve him. 

“Is there something on my face?” He asks self-consciously. 

“No.” Thorin answers simply as if he were unaware of the tension he was causing. He returns his stare to try to convey how inappropriate it was but Thorin only smiles as the flames from the fire dance in his eyes. He is fire. Dragon fire. Terrifying and all consuming. While he was just a moth to a flame. “You captivate me.” Thorin confesses and his breath catches in his throat. He must have misspoken. “You were not what I was expecting.” 

“What were you expecting?” 

“The unexpected.” Thorin talks in riddles making little sense. “Earth-eaters, oliphaunts, goblins, trolls, the weather, dragons, Gods and it was a little hobbit from the Shire who toppled me. Lion indeed.” 

“For the record I did not give myself that title. If I were to name myself, I would go by the bat of the Shire because I was in the dark and blind.” 

“Describe the Shire to me, I’ve never been.” 

“Oh well rolling hills and fields as far as the eye can see. Colourful gardens and winding paths and quaint little homes built under the hills.”

“Sounds picturesque.” 

“It is. After this is all said and done you are more than welcome to visit me. Dinner is at four and my door is always open. I’ll even let you sleep in the best guest bedroom.” He chooses not to divulge that it is the room beside his own. 

“And what if I wanted to sleep in your bedroom?” 

“That’s okay, I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom.” He offers magnanimously but Thorin laughs and looks at him as if he finds him endearing which has him questioning his response. He thinks back to what had been said and his eyes widen. “Oh.” Is the only logical sounding word he was able to utter when realisation dawned. 

Thorin grinned wolfishly and the light of the fire dances on the tips of his sharp canines. He then reaches into his pocket and retrieves a blueberry and tosses it into the air attempting to catch it in his mouth to show off. He can’t help but laugh as it strikes him on the cheek and Thorin laughs in good humour before grabbing another blueberry. 

“Shut up,” he says playfully and throws it at him, catching him in the eye. It doesn’t hurt and they both dissolve into a fit of laughter. “It’s getting late.” Thorin informs him while wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. He agrees and gets up and collects his bedroll while Thorin collects his and if they place their bedrolls rather close to the other neither of them says so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Thorin was channelling Raven at the end there. (If you know, you know.)


	7. Worth Dying For

In the morning the King wants eggs for breakfast and so they have eggs for breakfast. He doesn’t mind and is pleasantly surprised when Thorin passes him his tin with scrambled egg in. He eats it gratefully and discreetly spits out a fragment of shell to not cause offense. They clear camp soon after and use the bathroom before mounting the grey pony once more. This time he does not hesitate to wrap his arms around the King’s waist and if he presses a little closer to him than necessary nothing is said as personal space has become a foreign concept between them. 

They head north, or so he’s told. He’s been turned around and lost his bearings some time ago that he cannot even think where Thorin intends to go. He would follow him anywhere, that had already been decided, at first as compensation for his actions but now there was a keen desire to be with him. 

They while away the time talking about their parents and childhoods and finding they could not be any more different if they had tried. His parents were loving while Thorin’s were cold. He was an only child while Thorin was the eldest of three. Despite living under a hill, he did love to be outside while Thorin preferred to stay in his mountain. He enjoyed the sun while Thorin preferred the moon, they were day and night to each other but their hearts were the same. 

There was an inherent goodness in Thorin. His sense of duty made him loyal to a fault and his willingness to lay his life on the line so others may live made him selfless and far more courageous than he could ever hope to be. He inspired him to be a better person. 

They stop once to return feeling back into their legs and have something to eat. Afterwards when he was mounted on the pony, Thorin passed him his tin filled with blueberries and cherries before climbing up and continuing their journey. His actions became clear moments later when the King had turned, lips parted expectantly, awaiting to be fed. He was quite sure he could feed himself but he obliged by pressing a blueberry against his lips and removing his fingers as Thorin playfully nipped at them. He tried to not overthink it as they shared the fruit but it was made difficult when Thorin burst a cherry with his teeth and chased the juice on his fingers with his tongue. It was unfair of Thorin to exploit his attraction for his own amusement, he’d thought as he licked the remnants of juice on his fingers only to be reminded of a taste of a stolen kiss. 

He continued to feed him, grazing his lips with his fingertips when he dared until all the fruit was gone and he mourned the absence of them. Thankfully the silence didn’t last for long. Thorin liked to talk and he loved to hear him. They spoke of the future that was no longer promised to them and made impossible plans. Thorin would come to the Shire and teach him to ride a pony and use a sword. In return he would teach Thorin how to play conkers and bake cookies. It was because it was so domestic and so fantastical that they even entertained it. It was something worth saving, if not for them, then for others. Thorin might not have said it, or even entertained the thought of what it might be but true love was worth dying for. 

They ride well into the night as the land was barren and not a sound could be heard. The moon was a half crescent surrounded by stars that shone like diamonds on the bed of black silk. Occasionally Thorin would point one out and tell a fantastical tale of one of his ancestors that the star represented. He didn’t believe him for a moment, but he enjoyed the way he spoke so passionately about his heritage. He was a proud dwarf but his pride did not hinder his nobility. 

“We’re here.” Thorin whispers, while all he can see are rocks. “It is not safe to venture further. We’ll make camp here and leave at first light. No fire.” He agrees and climbs down and lays out their bedrolls while Thorin tends the ponies. There’s a chill in the air but the blankets should ward off the worst of it and he’s too exhausted to give it much thought. 

He turns around when he feels a presence behind him and finds Thorin shrugging off his fur coat exposing his bare arms. “Stop.” He insists, knowing what he was attempting to do and pulls his coat back up much to the King’s confusion. “I can’t have you catching your death, and certainly not for me.” 

“Don’t you want to sleep with me?” Thorin teases. 

“You know the answer to that question.” Thorin smiles knowingly. 

“You are an amazingly strange creature.” 

“If by caring about you makes me strange, then yes I am strange and you are careless.” 

“That’s me told.” 

“Go to sleep.” He reprimands playfully and walks over to his bedroll.

“That’s what I was trying to do.”

“In your own bed.”

“Spoil sport.” Thorin teases and lays on his own bedroll and they lie less than a metre away facing one another. Thorin is a tease, he’s known that from the beginning and he is unsure if there is anything more between them. For himself, he has fallen hard for the King of Erebor and would love nothing else than to share his bed, his heart, his soul and his life with him but somewhere in the distance a dragon awakens. He turns over onto his left-side away from blue eyes that appear luminescent under the moonlight and buries himself in his covers hoping to recreate a warmth he may never feel again.


	8. Mount Gundabad

There’s a weight draped over his right hip he notices as he awakens. He looks down and sees the King’s hand unmoving, hovering above his belly. His rings are gone, he can’t think when he may have taken them off. He remembered seeing many rings when they were splayed on the battlements as he entered the mountain. How time changes, he thinks wistfully, having never entertained the thought of those hands on him then and now he can think of little else. 

He can feel Thorin’s warm even breath on the back of his neck and realises they must have drawn closer to each other during the night as Thorin was now spooned behind him. He felt safe in his embrace and he enjoyed the brief glimpse of a possible future that awaited them. He places his hand over Thorin’s and threads their fingers together and feels Thorin stir behind him. 

The King awakens with a groan of discontentment and then nuzzles his neck, breathing in his scent as his hand presses against his belly drawing him back against him. The ease of his actions suggests that Thorin was fully aware that he was there and that he had bridged the gap between them by himself. 

“You awoke me from the sweetest of dreams.” Thorin complains, voice harsh and guttural from disuse. 

“Oh?” He pries, hoping that Thorin would elaborate so he could lay with him a moment longer. 

“I was in bed eating cinnamon cookies.”

“Do you often dream of food?” 

“Mmmmhmmm,” is mumbled against his neck sending a shiver down his spine. “I suppose we should get up.” Thorin says with a reluctant sigh and moves away from him. He sits up, suddenly cold from the King’s absence and watches Thorin cast his blanket aside and stride over towards the ponies. 

“Where are we?” He asks and catches the red apple that was tossed to him. He takes a bite and then stands as Thorin beckons him over towards the rocks they had slept behind. They climb up cautiously and gaze over the top looking towards an angular red mountain before ducking down again. “The fallen Kingdom of Angmar?” He asks aghast. 

“What, why would we go there for?” Thorin asks, taking the apple from his hand and biting it. “That is Mount Gundabad.” He informs him with his mouth full. 

“That isn’t much better.” 

“Mount Gundabad is the holiest of dwarf realms.” 

“Yes, and it fell to the orcs. We can’t go in there.”

“Orcs are nocturnal.” Thorin answers with a shrug, finishing the apple. He casts the core away and stands unsheathing his sword. 

“It’s pitch black in that mountain, I don’t think it matters.”

“One way to find out.”

“Are you mad?” 

“Maybe.” Thorin answers with a grin and climbs over the rocks as he stares wide-eyed. There is bravery and there is foolishness and the line between the two has become so blurred he fears he has become cross-eyed. He watches both terrified and intrigued as Thorin makes his way down the rocks and as he reaches the bottom, he turns to look at him, flashing him in a smile that makes him take leave of his senses. 

He grumbles to himself, knowing he has already lost and follows after the stupid, wonderful, reckless King. Thorin does not wait for him and he does not call for him to. He appreciates the trust the King has in him and his word as it was hard won and rightfully so. He attempts to lessen the distance between them but the earth is dry and cracked making it difficult to manoeuvre. Thorin appears to have an easier time of it, hopping from one piece of land to the next increasing the distance between them. He wants to tell him to slow down, that he is genuinely worried about his sanity as he gleefully approaches the red mountain but he can’t bring himself to say such things. 

Only when Thorin disappears into the darkened crevice of the mountain does he call for him but the King does not return. His heart hammers in his chest as he tries his best to shorten the distance but the King is lost in the darkness of the mountain. 

“Thorin?” He whispers into the darkness only to receive no reply. He places his hand against the rock and enters the mountain. He can’t see or hear anything but he continues on, calling Thorin’s name quietly. With each step he takes, the sense of dread blossoms from the pit of his stomach but he perseveres, navigating his way around the dark. 

He has no sense of time or direction and as he turns to the right, feeling along the wall, the burning glow of orange torchlight illuminate the passage to his left. He moves back as light shines from the right and then runs forward, stopping in his tracks as the passageway floods with light illuminating a seven-foot-tall, scarred pale orc. His instincts are to run but he cannot as the orc holds Thorin against him with a sword to his throat. Thorin’s own sword lies feet away and as he looks back to the orc, he sees the creature is not holding a sword, rather his left arm is a sword. 

He lunges forward and collects Thorin’s discarded sword and holds it with both hands. “Release him,” he insists breathlessly as his heart races. Aqua eyes regard him with indifference and so he swings the sword. “Let him go and we will leave.” Thorin makes a noise of discomfort as he tilts his head back as the blade presses closer against his throat. He swings the sword wildly hoping to make a point. “Let him go, I will use this if I have to.” He scares himself with how much he means it. 

The silence begins to drag and then, much to his relief, the sword is removed from Thorin’s throat. “You inspire loyalty in the most strangest of places.” The orc says conversationally to Thorin. “So, what brings the brat prince to Gundabad.” He looks between the two confused. 

“Brat King.” Thorin corrects. 

“My condolences.” 

“What?” He splutters in shock as the two speak as old friends. 

“My thanks, but I did not come all this way to speak of my father’s passing. Erebor has fallen and I need you to honour your word.” 

“Where is the stone?” Thorin looks towards him.

“Show him.” He directs and so he takes the Arkenstone from his pocket and shows the pale orc whose eyes widen in shock from seeing it and puts it back.

“It is true then, Erebor has fallen. Where are the princes?” Once again, he finds himself confused. 

“Princes? I didn’t know you had any sons.” He strangely feels betrayed, as Thorin was open about everything else.

“Nephews.” Thorin corrects him while the orc looks between them. “They remain in Erebor.” 

The pale orc strides over to the wall and grasps a rope that lined the wall and pulled, making the pieces of metal that hang from it jingle and clang. The mountain becomes aglow in orange torchlight as the sound of metal rings throughout the cavernous halls followed by the shrieks of orc and the banging of drums. 

“My army readies itself. Come, let us talk while they prepare.” The orc walks down the passageway and Thorin follows without hesitation and far more assuredly than he, as he lags behind riddled with uncertainty. 

He stares at the wide expanse of the exposed scarred back of the orc curious about the almost symmetrical scars as there were none on the back of his bald head but plenty on his face. His ears protrude and are pointed but resemble a bat rather than an elf. His left arm is missing, cut before the elbow and…and he knows him, knows the story of just how he lost that arm. 

“You’re Azog the Defiler.” Both dwarf and orc stop at the accusation in his tone. “You two are mortal enemies.” 

“Why, because he’s short? I wouldn’t hold that against him.” He’s not familiar with the hand gesture Thorin makes but he assumes it was not pleasant as Azog laughed revealing filed down yellowed fangs. 

“You fought at the Battle of Azanulbizar. Thorin cut off your arm.” 

“News to me, what have you been telling people?” Azog addresses Thorin. 

“I didn’t say anything, they came up with that all on their own.” Thorin answers with a shrug. 

“Is anything real?” He doesn’t like how hysterical he sounds but he could not help it as he feels as if he has been living a lie. 

“Excitable little fellow, isn’t he?” Azog remarks. 

“It’s a lot to take in.” Thorin defends. 

They continue along the path that takes them into a large hall not unlike the Great Hall in Erebor minus the gold and to a throne made out of bones and skulls. There Azog sits atop of the carcasses of man and beast, striking an imposing figure. Thankfully the other furniture is made of wood and possibly bamboo, he’s not quite sure, he’d have to ask but he had more pressing concerns. He takes a seat beside Thorin facing Azog. 

“Was the battle of Azanulbizar a lie? Legend says you took Thror’s head and came for Thorin’s and he took your arm.” 

“My grandfather died peacefully in his sleep.” Thorin clarifies. “However, there was a battle when Azog decided to betray the Witch King of Angmar.”

“He betrayed me first.” Azog adds. “I thought I could take him.” 

“That thought cost you your arm.” 

“Worked out well in the end. You should have seen him, halfling, came out of nowhere running to my aid. The alliance between orc and dwarf is a well-kept secret that some orcs doubt its existence so when the little prince runs towards me, they think he means to finish me off not cauterize the wound. He saved my life.” 

“I’m sorry, but how do you know each other?” 

“I know every direct descendant from Durin, meeting me is a rite of passage.”

“You knew Durin the First?” He asks sceptically. 

“I don’t look a day over fifty, I know.” He can only blink in reply, it’s too surreal having an orc speaking so casually to him. “It was Durin who made the pact with the orcs, more specifically, with me. He knew this day would come, and allies in the north in the guise of enemies would be essential.” 

“So, you didn’t invade Gundabad?” 

“Come now Bilbo, Gundabad is the holiest of dwarf realms. Do you really think we would let it fall without a fight?” Thorin asks incredulously and to be honest he had never thought of it in that way. 

“When Durin found us, we were homeless and suspicious of those that claimed our time was coming. We were fodder in their wars. No one was on the side of the Orcs but that did not stop them from doing atrocious acts in our name. Durin told us of Smaug, of the threat of death that hung over us all. He gave us a home on the promise that should Erebor fall, Gundabad will be a safe haven for the Arkenstone until the mountain is won back.”

“But the Mines of Moria, they fell too.” 

“They were given to us. Gundabad is our home but there is no wealth in this mountain. Durin not only wanted us to have a home but to prosper. There are not many options an orc can take in a world that judges on appearance. We are the outcasts of society and because of this we are more susceptible to the dark, Durin offered us a different path.”

“So, what is this rite of passage?” He asks interested, amazed by all he had learnt so far. 

“When an heir of Durin reaches maturity, he is brought to Gundabad and made aware of the pact. All guardians must know of it. The last dwarf I saw was Kíli and Thráin still drew breath. I am saddened to hear he has departed, he had my respect, anyone who could produce a son like Frerin is worthy of my respect.”

“You knew Frerin?”

“Knew him? I was engaged to him.” 

“Really?” He asks in surprise and Azog laughs slapping his bare muscular thigh. 

“I couldn’t resist. No, he was not the brother I wanted.” He looks pointedly at Thorin who winks in return. “Unfortunately he had gone stupid over an elf, whatever happened to your fancy piece?” 

“He stole my kingdom.” 

“It was the elves?”

“Men as well and a few more besides.” Thorin looks at him out of the corner of his eye but keeps his betrayal a secret. 

“How long ago was this?” 

“Five days.” 

“Five days? It takes two days to get here.” 

“I was taken prisoner and when I escaped, I thought to go to the Iron Hills only to learn Dain has betrayed me too.” 

“You should have come to me like your great great great great great great…” Azog pauses to look at Thorin for confirmation. 

“A few more.” 

“Great, great…forget it, we’ve lost enough time as it is. The stone must be returned.” 

“And what happens when it is returned?” He asks. 

“Durin said everything goes back to the way it was, which means the dragon turns back to stone.” He pauses as if listening for something. “My army should be ready.” He gets out of his throne, and he stands along with Thorin and follows Azog into the bowels of the mountain into a sparse armoury. “Help me with this.” Azog directs Thorin, as he lifts a spiked silver breastplate. He takes the opportunity to walk to the end of the room where the floor has given way and looks down upon military rows of armoured orcs. 

“Azog is no ordinary orc.” Thorin says, joining him. “He is a General. Will these orcs fight for me?” Thorin asks Azog as he approaches. The orc tilts his head as he considers the question. 

“They will fight for me.”

“As I thought. May I address them?” Azog inclines his head and Thorin steps forward to the very edge overlooking the army as Azog stands aside, joining him as they watch Thorin. “I am Thorin, son of Thráin son of Thror, rightful King Under the Mountain. I am descended from King Durin the First, the dwarf who gave you this home and the riches of Khazad-dûm. I come to you now and ask that you honour the pact made for this exchange. Many of you had not been born when this pact was made and may feel like this war does not concern you but you are wrong. This war concerns us all. If Smaug awakens all of our lives are forfeited. I know that orcs have been used and discarded, cast into the shadows and I say no more! Fight for me, ride with me, and when we reclaim Erebor, stand with me. No longer will orcs be overlooked or seen as lesser, take your place beside me as my allies, as my kin, as my brothers!” The army roars in response and Azog turns towards him. 

“He’s good.” He nods in reply, Thorin’s words were motivating even for him who does not share the orc’s plight. Thorin walks over to them and Azog steps forward, taking his arm and moving him off to the side. “It’s time. They will fight for you but now you must send your little friend away.” If Azog meant to be discreet, he failed miserably as he heard every word. 

“Thorin!” He protests as Thorin looks between him and Azog. 

“We are going to war. It’s no place for halflings.” Azog states steadfast and Thorin nods.

“Thorin don’t.” Thorin approaches him with a look of determination expressed on his face and his heart sinks. 

“Will you follow me one last time?” 

“To the end of the earth.” He promises with a smile as his heart is fit to burst. 

“There and back again.” Thorin replies with a smile of his own.


	9. War

“We ride.” Azog announces, interrupting their moment. 

“Our ponies are just beyond…” he begins to inform. 

“Ponies out on the wasteland? You won’t have ponies anymore.” His face falls at that, as he realises they’d condemned the poor beasts to death. “Wargs are faster.” Azog states and then walks towards a staircase that leads down towards his army and he and Thorin follow behind him. 

The armoured orcs are as still as stone as Azog walks among them, striding to the front where a huge white warg sits beside a smaller black warg. Azog easily sits astride the white warg while his stomach ties in knots as Thorin approaches the black warg. The beast growls at his approach but one shouted command by Azog quells the beast and Thorin climbs onto its back and holds out his hand for him to take. 

He approaches cautiously, ashamed of how badly his legs shake. “I’ve never ridden a warg before.” He timidly confesses. 

“Nor have I.” Thorin says. “And if I remember you hadn’t ridden a pony either. Do you trust me?” He lifts his head at that.

“With my life.” 

“Then trust me.” Thorin says, offering his hand once more. He closes his eyes and takes his hand taking a leap of faith as Thorin pulls him up behind him and his arms instinctively lock around the King’s waist. He breathes a sigh of relief and looks over towards Azog who is watching them curiously and not for the first time either. 

In a language unknown to him, Azog cries out an order and his orcs stamp their left feet as a row of torches are lit, catching like wildfire through the ranks, illuminating the substantial army. Azog then kicks the flanks of his white warg while holding his left sword-arm in the air before pointing it forward, away from his troops. Thorin pulls on the reins instead of a kick he notices but the warg complies and stands and side by side they lead the charge through the mountain. 

He'd lost his bearings a while ago but something about their direction perturbs him. “Are we…” he begins, looking for the right word. “Descending?” he asks, finding the word he was looking for. 

“Yes.” Thorin answers simply, unbothered by their current direction. 

“Why?” He asks, confused. 

“When the pact was made, a secret tunnel was built to connect the two mountains. On a warg, it will take a day at most to return. It is why Durin gave the orcs Gundabad when there is nothing to be mined here.”

“Where does it lead?” 

“Into the catacombs of Erebor. Durin the First has a special crypt where we will emerge away from prying eyes.” He credits Durin for his forward thinking, but still worries. 

“Won’t elven guards be stationed there?” 

“The crypts? Unlikely. The Keeper of the Crypts should be there if Thranduil wishes to keep the peace among my people.” He assumes Thorin understands he is confused in the silence that follows. “He wishes to rule Erebor, honouring the dead is sacred among my people. The rituals must be respected even if they are a farce.” 

“What?” He splutters in shock. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, the dead should be honoured but the Keeper of the Crypts is actually the Gate Keeper. Durin made up the rituals so the door would always be guarded.”

“And the High Priests? The Divine seven under the Three?” 

“Made up.” Thorin answers. “The Father represents time, the seven under the Father are Erebor’s accurate historians opposed to those in the writing guild. The Mother is nature. These priests watch over the mountain, and keep this tunnel clear and observe all changes in the mountain including new expansions and watch over Smaug. The Divinity is the Arkenstone. Those priests observe the stone and look for cracks. Only a Priest under the Divinity or a Protector can remove the Arkenstone. When I saw the heart was missing, I believed one of the seven had taken it.” 

“Why seven?” He asks and Thorin laughs. 

“It was Durin’s favourite number. He built a whole religion around it.”

“So…none of your religion is real?” He asks, gathering his thoughts. 

“What is real?” Thorin counters. “My people believe in a religion of peace, does that not make it real? Have you ever desired something so much that you believe you brought it into existence?” The question hits a little close to home and as Thorin turns to catch his eye he ducks his head embarrassed. “I have.” Thorin confesses with a smile as if he knows he is his dream made flesh. 

He wants to ask him what he believes he brought into existence but nerves still his tongue and make his fingers twitch around the King’s waist. Thorin misunderstands his anxiety, assuming his twitching fingers were cold and places one large hand over both of his own, calming him. It amuses him how the dwarf who makes him take leave of his senses is the very one that could ground him. 

Had he brought him into life? Was his yearning for something more actually his heart wishing to be fulfilled? He was here now, for better or worse, certainly not the best circumstances but his fondness grew from the start while the ice around Thorin’s heart needed time to thaw. 

They fall into an uncomfortable silence as the atmosphere is weighted with trepidation that he can feel all the way down in the pit of his stomach. They ride to war. A war he had caused. They had called him the Lion of the Shire but he was never that, just a hobbit out of his depth. He is still a hobbit out of his depth but the veil has been lifted and he is no longer blindly following, driven by lies and peer pressure. If only he hadn’t become wise to Thranduil’s deceit, then he could have remained in Erebor with accolades heaped upon him. Gandalf would still be dead though; the world would be in danger and Thorin…to not have met him doesn’t bear thinking about. Had he not been by his side Thorin would have gone to Dain and the horrors that awaited him there. It would have been easier to have done nothing but evil triumphs when good men do nothing. Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t the easy option. 

There will be fatalities, of that he is sure. Thorin had his army now, no longer outnumbered he could and would bring the fight to Thranduil and Thranduil would not yield as Thorin had. It pains him to realise that he had enabled the very war he thought he was subverting. Though, in fairness, he flatters himself if he was to believe he was the sole reason. This conflict had been brewing for decades and even without him, Thranduil would have found a way into Erebor. It was inevitable, his participation was just unfortunate. 

Riding a warg does cover more ground faster, he notices, as well as the absence of hunger that had been driven away by anxiety. He hadn’t anticipated the onset of fatigue as he thought his adrenaline would make it virtually impossible but the journey is long that the threat of death hanging over them all becomes secondary to the monotony of the tunnel. He hadn’t even realised he had succumbed to exhaustion until his head hits Thorin’s shoulder and he quickly rights himself. Thorin turns his head, believing he had wanted his attention and he only smiles shyly and yawns, laughing under his breath when Thorin yawns too. 

“Almost there.” He’s glad to hear it as pain blooms from the small of his back. He sits up straight to alleviate the pressure and releases Thorin’s waist to stretch his arms out by his sides. His timing could not have been worse, as at that very moment the ground shook and the walls quivered and their warg skidded upsetting his balance. He falls helplessly to the right and breathes a sigh of relief as Thorin was quick to act, grabbing hold of his left wrist to prevent his unfortunate meeting with the ground. They come to a stop and the tunnel is as silent as the grave. 

“Was that an earthquake?” He asks. 

“Dragon.” Thorin says plainly and then looks towards Azog. “Smaug awakens.” 

“Are we too late?” He asks panicked. 

“As long as we still draw breath it is never too late.” He looks to Azog once more. “We do not have much time.” Azog nods and yells out a command once more in that language and the orcs riding upon wargs move towards the front. He means to halve the army as the foot soldiers may fall behind, unfortunate, given the circumstances but time was their real enemy. 

They ride on, faster than before and his fatigue is forgotten as his heart pounds in his chest. It is real now. It had always been real but now it is upon them, war is heavy in the air, and he had felt the consequences of his actions. Thankfully there was truth in Thorin’s words, as they were near journey’s end and though the infantry had fallen behind, he could hear their stomping feet. 

The tunnel ends somewhat abruptly but there are stairs off to the left leading up. Thorin climbs off the warg and helps him down while Azog dismounts and holds a finger against his lips to silence his troops. Together they climb the steps as the width could withstand twice as many as it was designed to allow an army to infiltrate the mountain. As they reach the top, Thorin turns the handle and pushes the heavy door outwards cautiously. Once the gap is big enough, Thorin squeezes through and he follows behind him and enters a circular crypt with a domed class ceiling. The room is sparse with only a few empty shelves to disguise the door and a great tomb within the centre of the room. He cannot read the encryption but he knows that Durin the First rests there. 

Thorin moves towards the crypt door and beckons him over. He approaches with Azog behind him as Thorin begins patting his pockets seemingly no avail. “I need something to wave,” he whispers and both himself and Azog look down upon their own attires. Azog merely wears a silver chestplate and a leather loincloth, hardly appropriate attire but he was one to talk dressed in trousers, a shirt, a waistcoat and overcoat. He unties the cravat from around his throat, and passes it to Thorin who then opens the door enough to stick his arm through and wave the dirty material. 

“He’s seen me.” Thorin says, folding the material and putting it into his own pocket, taking it for his own. He opens his mouth to speak up about the theft but soon closes it. From one thief to another, that act could almost be considered sweet or absent minded but he preferred the former. 

There’s a knock on the door and Thorin knocks back. Two more knocks follow and Thorin nods. “It’s safe.” He says and partially opens the door and slips out to talk to the Keeper. He follows him out as the crypt was stifling and he had somewhat of a Gypsy heart. Whilst Thorin converses with the Keeper he slowly takes a walk and observes the vast catacombs with a shiver. So many tombs, he hoped it was not a foreshadowing of what was to come. The place stank of death, which was not overly surprising but the potency was. Each step he took the smell grew stronger, rotting flesh left to putrefy in the still air. He attempts to block his nostrils with the back of his hand and as he circles a tomb to avoid the stench, he sees the source of the smell and his heart breaks in two. He stifles the cry of his distress and turns as tears spill from his eyes and smacks into Thorin’s solid frame. 

“What’s the matter?” Thorin asks, and holds him in a comforting embrace. He can’t find the words to explain and can only point to the bundle of grey robes where Gandalf lay left to rot. “What is the meaning of this?” Thorin hisses nastily to someone over to the left of them. 

“I’m sorry, my King. Thranduil would not let me honour him, he swore to jail me if I so much as looked at the body and the gate must be protected at all costs.” 

“The fault is not yours, Thranduil has taken leave of his senses if he is allowing this.” Thorin placates the Keeper and then his arms tighten around him. “Come Bilbo, now is not the time to mourn.” Now was not the time for vengeance either even though he yearned for it. He had never felt such anger, his body practically vibrated with rage which Thorin misconstrued for sorrow as he comforted him. 

He can’t talk as he does not trust what he may say and he’d rather Thorin think he had a broken heart rather than a hateful one. He is led back to Durin’s crypt where Azog awaits them with a questioning look that Thorin waves off. 

“The dwarves are in lockdown after they tried to send word to the Iron Hills. The Rangers have gone south leaving only Thranduil’s army. The guards on the lower levels are sparse while Thranduil hides away in the throne room.” 

“What’s the plan?” Azog asks. 

“We cut the head off the snake, but first, release the wargs.” Thorin says with perverse delight that he might have once recoiled from but there is hate in his heart and his smile is a reflection of Thorin’s own and mirrored by Azog. 

Azog returns to the tunnels and bellows his orders and both he and Thorin step back as the pack of wargs run up from the tunnel through the crypt out into the catacombs and out into the belly of the mountain. 

The screaming that follows is horrific and he squeezes his eyes shut ashamed of the monster they made him. Even Thorin’s smile has waned. There was no victory to be had in the loss of life. A necessary evil, perhaps, but one they should not delight in. 

Releasing the wargs gives the foot soldiers time to arrive and a steady stream of orcs enter into the catacomb and out into the mountain following in the wargs’ deadly footpath. They fall in line with them close to the front. He’d prefer a central location but this was Thorin’s fight, brought about because of him and so he makes no protest and as he walks by the torn deceased body of an elf, he collects their sword and arms himself. 

The lower halls of the mountain were sparsely guarded, as they pass no more than a hundred bodies until they reach the main hall. There the fight begins, but it is a brief skirmish that ended quickly as the few elven guards were easily dispatched. They stand in the hall confused until an orc cries out and turns with an arrow lodged in its throat. 

“It’s a trap!” Thorin yells, and he looks up as archers come out of the shadows and begin firing down upon them. Fear keeps him rooted to the spot and had it not been for Thorin grabbing hold of him and pulling him out of harms way, he fears he would no longer draw breath. Instead he watches helplessly from the safety of the alcove beside the door as orcs and wargs drown in a wave of arrows. 

The arrows are relentless and end only when the last body within sight ceases to twitch. The once golden floor is now stained red with blood and he physically shakes realising how close he had come to being a body upon that floor. 

Mocking laughter chills him to the bone. “Thorin Oakenshield!” Thranduil’s voice calls out. “I know that you are there snivelling like the coward you are!” He means to vex him, so Thorin will step out of the shadows and so he grabs the dwarf’s arm preventing such an action. “Allying yourself with orcs to invade my Kingdom.” 

“Your Kingdom?” Thorin shouts back and he glares at him as Thranduil shares another sinister laugh. 

“There you are.” He announces victoriously. “Enough of this. You’ve had your tantrum, now call off your dogs and honour your word.” 

“And what word might that be?” He sighs exasperated by Thorin’s continued lunacy to reply. 

“How soon you forget. You pledged yourself to me, twice.” His own mouth falls open at that as Thranduil still desires to marry Thorin. “I never understood why you went back on your word. It cannot be because I would not attend the funeral of your bastard baby brother.” He grabs hold of Thorin with both hands as the dwarf makes to leave the safety of their shelter. 

“I will never marry you!” Thorin rages as he clings on to him desperately. 

“Come out come out wherever you are, I have something to show you. Can you see this?” Despite his best efforts, Thorin pokes his head out and rather interested himself, he looks out and up. There on the walkway to the throne stands Thranduil in silver armour holding an elvish blade. “Orcrist, this sword was far too good for you but I gave it to you nonetheless. Perhaps one of your nephews would like it? What is the eldest’s name? Fíli, is it not? Looks an awful lot like Frerin, doesn’t he? Blond hair, fair skin and those Durin blue eyes. Tell me, Thorin, is he untouched?” He pulls Thorin back into the alcove, scared of what he may do. “A stupid question, I should have asked if you still think he is untouched.” 

“You leave him alone!” Thorin yells and breaks free of his grip. 

“I don’t think I will. Since you will not marry me, and he is your heir, I shall take his hand instead.” He can hear scuffling from above followed by a painful cry. “He is handsome, for a dwarf. Feisty too, he really is Frerin reincarnated, isn’t he?” The cry sounds again and Thorin takes his leave, running out into the open with his hands held up in surrender. 

“It’s me you want, let him go!” He trembles in the alcove and then steels his resolve and steps out standing a few metres behind Thorin. Thranduil is holding a blond dwarf by the hair as he sneers down at the dwarven King. 

“Run!” The blond- Fíli- suddenly shouts as he attempts to push Thranduil away and potentially to his death. The Elven King’s stance remains firm and realising his mistake, Fíli attempts to flee but Thranduil had not released his hair and with his right hand he thrusts the sword named Orcrist through the back of Fíli, robbing him of life. 

“Now he really does look like Frerin!” Thranduil crows viciously and pulls his sword from Fíli’s back. The young dwarf’s lifeless body slumps to the floor and Thranduil kicks at him, knocking him from the walkway so his body lands before Thorin, spraying him in the face with his warm innocent blood. 

He stands frozen, eyes wide and mouth agape. He cannot see Thorin’s face but he can hear his stuttering breaths. “Thorin!” He shouts as he notices the archers notching their arrows. He calls for him again as he takes a step back without a single bow moving direction. He was not their target. Thorin will not move, trapped within his own grief he is unsure if he welcomes death, or cannot emotionally fathom what has happened and has disconnected with reality. 

He screams his name, not sure of what else he can do. He’s too small to be able to protect him with his own body and he would if it would mean the King would be safe. The archers draw back their string and he makes eye contact with a blond archer but to little avail. There is no mercy in those dark eyes. No conscience. He’s just a soldier following orders. 

At the first scream he drops his head and squeezes his eyes shut. After the second higher-pitched scream he opens his eyes surprised to find Thorin standing as still as stone and unharmed. He looks up towards the walkways and breathes a sigh of relief as the archers are in combat with orcs. 

Whilst the archers are distracted, Azog appears running across the great hall and grabs hold of Thorin, lifting him when he does not move and runs into the alcove. He follows behind him and watches Azog set Thorin down by the stairs and hold his face in both hands as Thorin remains still, stunned by his nephew’s death. 

“Snap out of it.” Azog hisses and shakes him and life returns to those sad blue eyes as the King succumbs to his grief. 

“Fíli.” He mumbles brokenly and accepts Azog’s embrace as the ground trembles and the sound of tumbling rock crashing against the floor echoes in the hall. He’d almost forgotten about the dragon since entering the mountain, as two wars raged in the Erebor. 

“I still have one brother left!” Thranduil’s voice calls out clearly once the mountain had ceased to quake. It was almost as if it was beyond his notice. 

“Kíli!” Thorin cries out and slips from Azog’s grip to run up the stairs. 

“Shit!” He curses and takes off after him and hears Azog behind him. They don’t get far as Thorin has come to a halt along the rampart and is looking up towards the throne. He pauses too and looks above finding Thranduil looking wild-eyed upon his fallen archers while holding the bloody blade to a dark-haired dwarf’s throat. 

“This one looks like you. He’s your favourite, isn’t he? Surrender and no harm shall come to him, you have my word.” 

“Your word means nothing!” 

“I grow tired of your stubborn defiance. If you will not marry me, relinquish the crown, name favourite here, King, and bless our union.” The elf is insane and beyond all reason. “Kiss your future husband.” Thranduil says loudly to the dwarf and dips him to bestow a showy kiss that is scuppered by a bite he assumes as Thranduil pulls away, vexed. “Ow! A heartbreaker, just like your uncle.” That said, he plunges his sword into Kíli’s chest, killing him instantly. “Guess that just leaves you then, my love.” Thranduil announces kicking Kíli’s body from the walkway to join his brother. 

“Thorin, I…” he doesn’t have the words to confess his profound sadness for his loss. He won’t pretend to understand how it feels as he could only imagine how devastating it was. Surprisingly Thorin turns towards him as white as a sheet. He was beyond grief, desolate but determined and there was something final about his look. He approaches him with confidence and presses a kiss to his lips as he puts his hand in his pocket. He returns his kiss for the brief moment it lasted and then Thorin steps away from him with the Arkenstone in his hand. 

“I won’t ask you to follow me, you’ve honoured your word.” Thorin says before sprinting off along the ramparts towards the stairs. He turns to look at Azog who looks as equally troubled as himself. 

“To the end of the earth.” He whispers a promise he means to keep but fears there will be no back again. He makes his peace with that and takes off running after Thorin and once more Azog follows his lead. 

He hadn’t believed he had hesitated for very long but Thorin is beyond his sight and reach as he runs up the stairs. Four turns, he remembers, stupidly keeping his eyes down to count the steps. He walks out, head still down only to be pushed aside, knocking head first into the wall and falling into a heap on the floor. His vision swims as he comes back to himself and blinks the blood out from his eyes. 

He can hear monstrous screaming and he looks towards the stairwell and sees the shadow of Azog on the wall and the many swords sinking into him. He turns away and crawls to get to his feet using the wall as leverage. Once upright he places his right hand against his bleeding right temple and staggers down the hallway towards the golden door that stands ajar. 

The fighting had not ceased as he can still hear the clash of swords and agonised cries that chorus together into a symphony of anguish. His heart aches as he never meant for any of this to happen. So many friendships and lives lost and for what? 

The ground trembles as he reaches the door and he falls against it, opening it wider as he corrects his stance. His head pounds terribly while his heart aches pitifully in his chest as he finds King Thranduil and King Thorin a third of the way along the walkway overlooking the mines in an embrace. He blinks repeatedly, not trusting his vision. Thorin has his back to him as he stands toe to toe with Thranduil, head back to look into his eyes as there is barely a hair’s breadth between them. Despite their close proximity, it does not appear intimate as it did on first glance as Thorin is jutting his chin proudly and then the breath leaves his body when he sees it. 

The blade sticking out of Thorin’s back. 

“No” he chokes, dropping to his knees. 

He watches Thranduil draw back, removing the blade and looking coldly at Thorin as the dwarf covers the wound and staggers backwards. Disinterested, Thranduil then walks away to stand before the throne as Thorin falls down, splayed on his back. 

His legs feel like jelly and his vision is blurred confusion and so he crawls to the fallen King’s side. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin begins coughing up blood from the single word. He shushes him as he looks down at the wound and bile rises in his throat that he has to force himself to swallow down. 

“It’s okay,” he lies, pressing his hand against the wound trying to stem the bleeding. “You’re going to be okay.” He speaks it wishing to make it a reality. If Thorin is his dream made flesh then surely his continued existence could be prayed for too. 

“Bilbo, let me go.” 

He shakes his head. “No.” The ground trembles but the mountain could collapse on him as far as he was concerned. He feels something press against his hand and looks down as Thorin attempts to pass him the Arkenstone. 

“Return the heart. It’s not my destiny, it’s yours.” He takes the Arkenstone but continues to shake his head in denial. “I wish we could have been together.” He nods in agreement, Thorin is all he has ever wanted and he is slowly and cruelly being taken away from him. “But I die on my own terms.” Then he is gone, rolling off the walkway and swallowed by the abyss of the mines and he can only stare at the pool of blood he had left behind. 

He was gone. 

The mountain quakes at the loss of its King. He is beyond grief to even shed a tear. Thorin had robbed Thranduil of his victory but he had also done it for him, so he would not have to watch him die and mourn him when there was still a war to be won. Selfless to the very end. 

He gets to his feet. Thorin did not die in vain. All of the sacrifices made this day counted for something. This war was bigger than them all and they would take their place in history, he would make sure of it. The past will not be forgotten, as he will ensure that there is a future. 

“Thranduil!” He shouts clutching the Arkenstone that was wet with Thorin’s blood. The elf turns towards him but there is emptiness in his eyes and he can only hope he is not beyond all reason. “Step aside and let me return the Arkenstone.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Bilbo.” Thranduil says cordially as if he hadn’t just single-handedly wiped out the noble line of Durin. 

“You don’t understand, the Arkenstone is…”

“The heart of the dragon.” Thranduil finishes for him and his mouth gapes in disbelief. 

“You knew?” 

“Gandalf can become loose-lipped after a certain amount of wine.” Thranduil arrogantly informs him. 

“Then you know I must return the heart.” 

“I will not allow it. There are no sons of Durin left to marry and I will become King of Erebor. Thorin was a useless king, giving away the mountain’s wealth, robbing his nephews of their inheritance.” So you robbed them of life, he thinks bitterly. “My intentions were honourable. It was you who took the stone. It was you who killed Thorin. I regret requesting you from the Shire for the trouble you’ve caused me.” His heart sinks at that, as he realises more lies have been uncovered. “Oh, you did not know. Did you not find it strange that you were specifically called upon?” He had found it strange but it stank of Lobelia interference that he had put it to the back of his mind. “Gandalf would often speak of you, of his little friend in the Shire who could walk unseen. One as small as a dwarf who could open doors. Quite the trick. Quite the useful trick. Halflings do so love the elves, why the Thain was practically all over me, such devotion, such hospitality. I asked for him to send you to my woods but not to speak of my involvement of it and he obliged. You look at me as if I am the villain of this story but none of this would have been possible without you, Lion of the Shire.” 

“And that is something that I will have to live with and I will never forgive myself but you and I are not the same. I’ll say again, step aside.” 

“That head injury must be more severe than it appears. I will not step aside. Since you stole my fiancé, I now need Smaug to awaken.” 

“Because you did not get your own way, you’ll condemn the world to death?” 

“No, you small-minded creature. I am prepared for Smaug’s awakening. Once the dragon leaves the mountain he’ll not get far. The mountain is surrounded by windlances armed with black arrows.” 

“A black arrow can only kill a dragon. Smaug is no mere dragon, he is the God’s wrath.”

“A dragon is a dragon!” Thranduil argues back poorly. “I will slay the dragon that ended the line of Durin and in their thanks they will name me king as I lost my beloved fiancé.” 

“The same fiancé who rode to war against you?”

“Who bore witness? You, the hobbit that murdered Gandalf? Unfortunately, Bilbo, you will be one of Smaug’s victims too. I alone will survive Smaug’s wrath and in the aftermath, I will mourn the passing of my husband of a few minutes as we exchanged vows as he lay dying. I will remember him fondly, statues will be made of us and you Bilbo, you’ll be forgotten.” The mountain quakes worse than it had before upsetting both of their balance as they are thrown to the floor. He looks up at the stalagmite and watches the rock fall away revealing an orange reptilian eye. It’s too late.

He pushes himself up from the floor and makes a run for the throne while Thranduil is still down. It's now or never. The heart must be returned and then Thranduil must be dealt with. He climbs onto the seat as he once did before and reaches up to return the Arkenstone when a sudden pain bursts in his chest and he can’t catch his breath. He looks down at the sword sticking through his chest and watches it leave as blood rises in his throat. Thranduil chuckles darkly behind him and with the last of his strength he kicks at him and reaches up on the tip of his toes and presses the heart into the hollow cavern.

“Sleep and never wake up.” He bids and removes his hand thankful that the bloodied stone remains in place. He can’t catch his breath as his lungs fill with blood and he slowly suffocates. He shuts his eyes for the final time and makes one last wish to see Thorin again as he falls back into Death’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. We're in the middle of a pandemic and I've never been so busy, typical.


	10. Destiny

He opens his eyes and stares at the Arkenstone unsullied by Thorin’s blood and beaming like a beacon of hope within the chest cavity. He touches his own chest, feeling for a wound that was no longer there as his breath comes easily. Was he in purgatory, atoning for his sins, forced to relive his greatest error over and over again? Had the world ended? After him, who else could stop Thranduil from removing the stone? 

He hears voices behind him and turns, still stood upon the throne. He watches as the golden door opens and King Bard and Beorn both stoop down to enter the throne room deep in conversation. 

His jaw drops at their intrusion and he turns quickly to look at the Arkenstone once again. Return the heart and everything goes back to the way it was before. Azog had told him that, believing it to mean the dragon would return to stone but instead it has reversed time. Everything has returned to the moment the stone was taken, which means…

“Wait!” He yells and jumps down from the throne and rushes to meet with Bard and Beorn. “We have been deceived.” 

“What?” Bard asks genuinely confused and he watches the door open a second time and steps in front of his companions. 

“Why don’t you tell them?” He challenges Thranduil as the elf steps into the room lacking the confidence he once exuded. 

“What is there to tell?” The Elvenking feigns ignorance as he approaches them and his hands ball into fists. 

“Start by telling the truth! Thorin Oakenshield is not purchasing an army! You lied. That letter was a forgery, written with the sole intention to convince all of us to invade Erebor!” He opens his mouth to continue but the breath is taken from him as the door opens once again to emit two elven guards carrying an irate dwarven king between them. “Get off him!” He shouts, manoeuvring around Thranduil to confront the guards. “Unhand him right now!” The guards are not looking towards him but rather to their king awaiting instruction, which he gathers he gives as Thorin is dropped unceremoniously to the floor as the guards take two steps back. 

Surprising, Thorin only scrambles up to his knees with a look of confusion etched on his beautiful face. It hurts to look at him, sat on the same walkway where he lost his life. He vows there and then that Thranduil will never hurt him again as he steps protectively in front of Thorin. 

“What is this Bilbo, victor’s remorse? You, yourself opened the gate allowing us this great victory.” 

“I shouldn’t have invaded Erebor. I knew in my heart that it was wrong. You will never be King of Erebor! Ever!” 

“Bilbo, what are you saying?” Bard asks, clearly between both sides. 

“I am saying this is what Thranduil wanted. He was going to force Thorin to marry him. He was going to stop the monthly blessings and close mines so that Dain could profit.”

“Is this true?” Bard asks Thranduil and the elf has the audacity to scoff in response. 

“Such an imagination Bilbo, I applaud you.” He turns then to address Bard and Beorn. “Don’t you see? The hobbit is in bed with the King of Erebor.” 

“Somewhere you’ll never be.” He answers back, smartly. “They were engaged once.” He informs his companions and enjoys the way Thranduil’s eyes widen. “You didn’t mention that before.” 

“I fail to see the relevance.” 

“Had he not gone back on his word; you would be the King of the richest kingdom in Middle Earth. I think that is enough of a motive to frame him for something he did not do.” 

“Have you any evidence or will you continue to accuse me of things I have not done.” 

“The very letter you tricked us with will be your undoing. We simply assumed you and Dain would know his signature and we took you at your word. We have Thorin here now, let him write his signature, you’ll find it is not a match.”

“Do you still have the letter?” Bard asks Thranduil and he breathes a sigh of relief as he has been believed. 

“You are taking his word over mine?” Thranduil asks incredulously and subsequently reveals his guilt by his standoffishness. 

“Produce the letter.” Beorn says sternly. It was not a suggestion.

He smiles appeased as for one awful moment he believed Thranduil would get away with his treachery. Justice may not be as swift as he would have liked but it would be had. 

“You!” Thranduil says coldly and withdraws his sword and he recognised the fang pommel. It was Orcrist. He shames himself as he cowers away, backing up to the edge of the walkway, remembering the sting of that sword through his back. Fear steals his breath as the sword once did. He can hear the others shout but what they say is drowned by his rapid heartbeat and the roar of blood in his ears. 

Thranduil lunges at him and he ducks and moves away from the edge and watches as Thranduil’s momentum takes him precariously close to the edge of the walkway. The sight of the sword brings up fresh images of Fíli and Kíli dying in his mind and then…Thorin. He screams, incensed by what Thranduil had done and he runs at the Elvenking and shoves him with all of his strength. 

He comes back to himself only to watch Thranduil fall to his death and impact on the golden floor. He turns towards the others, his colour drained and mouth agape as they stare back equally as shocked. The two elven guards take a moment to process what had happened and they step forward with their swords drawn to kill him. 

He holds his hands up in surrender and is surprised when Thorin accosts one of the elves, grabbing his sword arm and twisting it so the elf is impaled by his own sword. Thorin stands and takes the elf’s sword for his own and throws his body from the walkway before ducking the vicious swing at his head by the second guard. It is a brief skirmish that ends with Thorin sinking his blade into the elf’s chest and kicking him off the walkway. 

Thorin then looks at him as if he is a puzzle to solve. It hurts to know that he views him with a stranger’s eyes but he had protected him, as he did before. Those five days had been lost but the potential between them was still there. 

The golden door comes open again and four dwarfs enter. Confusion is written all over their faces as they come to stand behind their king in a defensive position. 

“Arrest him.” Thorin says with little authority, it almost sounded like a question. 

“Me?” He gasps, stunned. But of course, it would be him. Thorin couldn’t very well arrest Bard and Beorn didn’t push the Elvenking to his death. “Thorin please,” he says as two dwarves takes an arm each and lead him away. “Thorin, let me explain. Thorin!” He says as he is led past the king. “Don’t do this, please. Thorin.” He looks over his shoulder pleadingly repeating the king’s name while Thorin simply looks at him confused. 

His shoulders slump as the golden door closes behind him and he resigns himself to his fate. The guards do not speak a word as he is led through the mountain by soft guiding hands. He would think a dwarf was incapable of such a gentle touch had he not felt Thorin’s caresses. He appreciates their careful handling of him but he knows it stems from their bewilderment. Those he passes by offer him the same look as Thorin. Confusion. He wouldn’t be surprised if he wore the look himself. 

The jail is two levels above the tombs and as he is led through, he finds to his disappointment, that every cell is empty. He tries to think positively and hopes he might get his pick of them but he is led past all the open doors and up a spiral staircase. They climb to the very top and walk out to find a lone cell with the door standing open. 

The guards release his arms and he walks the short distance to cell and enters. There’s a bed, a functioning toilet and sink and nothing more. He takes a seat on the bare mattress as one of the guards shuts the door and turns the key in the lock before walking away. He opens his mouth to call him back and request bed linen but he soon thinks against it. They’ve treated him exceptionally well up to this point, there was no need to push. He had a mattress, he should be grateful for the little things. 

He stays awhile in that position awaiting someone to question him about his motives but no one comes. He lays back on the mattress and wonders if the King is thinking about him. He hopes that he is and that he remembers him fondly, doubtful, but he could dream. Thorin was safe and the heart was returned, that was all that truly mattered. His incarceration was unfortunate but he still drew breath. Where there was life there was hope, Thorin had taught him that. He shuts his eyes comforted by the words from a lost love who had returned. 

~

The morning seventh hour bell awakens him, as it does every morning. He yawns and stretches beneath his warm covers before reaching for the piece of rock by his bedside. He grasps it and sits up and adds another line to his incarceration tally he had etched on the wall. 

Three months, two weeks and three days. 

He drops the rock and curls back into his covers. Breakfast would be arriving shortly and he wanted to bask in the rapidly declining memory of his dream. It was of Thorin again. It was always about Thorin as he could think of little else. They were sat on a bench in his garden at Bag End both smoking and blowing smoke rings.

He’d not seen Thorin since time reversed though he remained his prisoner. He’d asked about him but his one and only guard, a tall brooding dwarf with a bald tattooed head and the remnants of brunette hair would give him no answer. He would not even share a single word with him. He’d just stare at him with disbelief and confusion in his brown eyes, place down his food and leave. 

He had three meals a day. He had not been mistreated but it was becoming crystal clear that they did not know what to do with him. During the first two months he was sure Thorin would come and talk with him so he was up before the bell and making himself presentable only to be let down time after time. 

He had to stop himself from hoping by the third month as he clung on to it and it had become a noose. Thorin wasn’t coming, he knew it but he did not want to believe it. In his loneliness, he made his own Thorin, or rather dredged one up from memory. When it was too quiet, Thorin filled the silence with his stream of conscience, using a lot of words to say nothing at all. He’d hold the fur blanket tighter as he once held the King as they rode to Gundabad as he told the same stories. 

It was difficult being in love with a ghost but it kept him sane. The jail was eerily quiet at night and during his imprisonment not a single person had been arrested. He would be impressed if it did not depress him as he would have liked the company. 

He doesn’t receive visitors but sometimes if he stands by the bars, he can see the jail door and more often than not eyes are peering back at him. At first, he thought it was Thorin with those mischievous blue eyes but something twisted painfully in his chest when the blue eyes were replaced with brown eyes. He had an inkling of who they were and it was confirmed when they plucked up enough courage to open the jail door and outright stare at him. It was those precious children that Thranduil brutally murdered in front of him, alive and well and causing their minder misery as the old white-haired dwarf with a forked white beard often had to shoo them from the jail. 

He never got to speak to them but he waved once and the pair laughed like the naughty children they were. He wanted to tell them that they were stronger than they even knew, that they were selfless and honourable and their bond was enviable. He couldn’t tell them that he had watched them die, he couldn’t bear to relive that horror. Their uncle loved them, he might want to tell them that as he had seen the pure love Thorin had for the boys. By murdering them, Thranduil had killed Thorin before he ever sank that blade into him. 

He hears footsteps and reluctantly sits up and climbs out of bed. He had left his tray by the door so he is comfortable turning his back to make his bed. They had given him the pillows and sheets the night of his incarceration and have since changed them monthly. 

“Well I had to see it to believe it.” His jaw drops at the sound of that voice and he turns, stifling his gasp with his hands. 

“Gandalf.” He calls excitedly and runs to the bars. He’s ashamed to admit he had forgotten about Gandalf’s demise as he wallowed in his own self-pity. 

“Dwalin, do open this door.” Gandalf speaks to his guard who shakes his head. “Come now, Bilbo here has been a model prisoner, he’s not going to run away.” Dwalin continues to hesitate. “You have my word.” 

“Aye, your word is good enough for me.” Dwalin says and produces the key from his pocket and opens the door. Gandalf steps inside and turns to thank the dwarf when he is suddenly upon him and hugging him tightly. 

“Yes, yes,” Gandalf says patting his head. “I’ve missed you too.” He’s making him uncomfortable but he cannot help it. 

“I really missed you.” He confesses and releases him and takes a moment to knock the tears from the corners of his eyes as Gandalf watches him curiously. 

“Be thankful to King Bard, he recalled you mentioning my name and bid King Thorin to send for me. Had his recall only been swifter, I could have reached you within the day as I was with the eagles enchanting their nests. Tiresome work but they do so love to nest near the waterfalls.” Why Gandalf was damp and more unkempt than usual suddenly becomes clear. “I was surprised to learn of the invasion and more so to hear your name. You have certainly made an impression and Thorin would like to know where you have met before.” 

“He mentioned me?” He asks, preening. 

“So, you do know each other. How could a hobbit who, before all of this, had never left the Shire meet the King who has never left Erebor?” 

“I could tell you, but I’m not sure you’ll believe me.” He offers honestly. 

“Sounds like you have a tale to tell. Trust me, Bilbo, I’m more likely to believe your story than the alternative one about you.”

“Which is?” 

“That you killed a High Priest, stole his robe to invade Erebor. Then your conscience got the better of you.” 

“That wasn’t me! Dain gave me the robe, you must tell Thorin, Dain is not to be trusted.” Dain had assassinated a High Priest for the robe, no wonder he was so confident that not all twenty-one priests would bless the cargo. He feels sick. “If they believe I am responsible, why am I not dead?” It is an honest question since acting against a High Priest is the equivalent of acting against the King. It is treason and it is punishable by death. 

“You have Bard to thank once more. You were lucky to have him in your corner. He told Thorin about the Council in the Greenwood and how you alone were not convinced by Thranduil and that he confessed to some doubt until the letter was shown. It is a forgery as you swore to and Dain has been dealt with. I’m sure he and Thranduil have much to talk about.” Dain has been killed. A just death. He will not mourn the greedy creature. “Bard said that you were given the robe so the murder charge was dropped, but you did invade Erebor and murder the Elvenking and that’s how we find ourselves here. They simply do not know what to do with you. I offered my help to make sense of this entire mess and the King was much obliged.” Silence stretches between them. “Will you tell me?” 

“I do not wish to alarm you, please sit.” Gandalf sits on his made bed while he paces. “I know about Smaug.” The Wizard’s eyes widened at the use of that name. “The Arkenstone, the pact with the Orcs, Durin the First.”

“Who told you?” 

“Thorin.” Gandalf looks at him with uncertainty. “I do know the King of Erebor, I did, we knew one another but that time was erased and only I can remember.” He looks hopefully at Gandalf but his friend can only offer him a questioning look. “I did invade Erebor. I did open the gate and I went to the throne room as Thranduil told me to do. I was there first and I saw the Arkenstone and I was drawn to it. Next thing I know I’m stood on the throne reaching for it. I tried to move away and somehow released it and I put it in my pocket when Beorn and Bard entered. They did not suspect a thing, then Thranduil enters and Thorin is dragged in. He was livid. He was thrown at Thranduil’s feet and we were told that there would be a trial but Thranduil suddenly proposed and Thorin was having none of it. He chose to die rather than marry the elf and Thranduil meant to kill him and I lurched forward to stop him and that is when Thorin saw the stone in my pocket and pleaded for his life and accepted the proposal.” He finishes in one breath. 

“And that is when you pushed Thranduil?” 

“No no no no, before that. The day repeated itself, or rather I went back to the moment I took the stone. I’m not making any sense; it doesn’t make sense.” He sighs defeated. If he can’t explain what happened how was he supposed to defend himself. “Okay,” he says calming himself. “What is true and unchanged is everything up until I entered the throne room. Forget what you have been told, it did happen, but that was after.” He looks hopefully at Gandalf but only is met with a blank stare. “Imagine there was another reality, one where I did not know the letter was a forgery and I did not confront Thranduil and that issue with the Arkenstone happened.” Gandalf nods, and he is thankful for his willingness to listen to him. 

“Okay,” he breathes gratefully. “The next day Thranduil explained to me that his intention was to always marry Thorin and he had led the council under false pretences because he thought his motives would be questioned. I believed him, more than I ever did in the Greenwood and then he told me of your arrival. Word had reached you and you were arriving on the back of the King of Eagles within the day. Thranduil asked me to present Thorin to you and ask for you to bless his union with Thorin. He also said we would take tea together and the way it was worded suggested it was your idea. So, you arrive and I bring Thorin to you, you’d never met before but you said he was like his grandfather.”

“He is very much like Thror.” Gandalf agrees and then eyes him suspiciously as he has revealed something he should not know. 

“You would not give your blessing. You were vexed at Thranduil and I did not know why. You claimed he was a poor host and I did not make the connection. I truly believed he was going above and beyond to endear himself to you as he even seated you upon a throne but he had not offered you a drink, he could not for what he had planned. We sat together and you told me that I was wrong for invading Erebor, something that I always knew. I can’t excuse what I did, I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. After that, we took tea together and that is when you revealed you were parched. I added the five sugars to your tea and you drank it in one gulp.” He pauses. “I am so sorry, Gandalf, I did not know.”

“Know what?”

“Thranduil had poisoned the sugar. He knew how you took your tea and how I took mine. He needed visible evidence of me lacing your tea and I naively gave it. We spoke and you began to cough and then you clutched your throat and your face…your face went…and your eyes…and I couldn’t. I couldn’t help.” He stutters as tears stream down his cheeks as he remembers. “Thranduil yelled out that I had poisoned you and they took me away and you were laid there choking and they wouldn’t let me go. No one would help and you died and it was all my fault.” Gandalf places a comforting hand on his knee as a reminder that all was well now. “The dwarves fought back and during the melee I was dropped and Thorin came and got me. He took me through the mountain to a secret door that is opened by an iron key that he wears around his neck. We left the mountain at sundown, Thorin can converse with the ravens so we knew that it was safe. We ran to the woods and there he tried to kill me. He thought I had murdered you and that I had stolen the Arkenstone, which in fairness to him, I was guilty of the latter. As I was trying to get away from him the stone fell from my pocket giving him pause so I grabbed it and threatened to smash it and he surrendered himself, as he had done to Thranduil and I knew then that I held no mere trinket. I demanded he tell me what it was but he made me answer a question first.”

“What did he ask?” Gandalf asks, genuinely curious. 

“Why did I invade Erebor.”

“And why did you?” 

“Thranduil was going to attack Erebor with or without me and without me the dead would be beyond the count of grief. I was hoping my actions would spare any unnecessary losses. Thorin believed me, he said that he believed the stone had chosen me, that it knew it would be safe in my possession and he let me keep it to the bitter end.” He pauses for a moment so his emotions do not overwhelm him. “He told me the true history of his people and the famine and the greed and the arrival of Smaug. He wasn’t my friend but he had begun to trust me and I was safe with the knowledge that he would not make further attempts on my life.” He laughs at the memory of it even though he had been terrified when he had experienced it. 

“The next day he planned to go to the Iron Hills thinking Dain was on his side. Sadly, I had to disabuse him of that notion and so we travelled north to Gundabad. Durin had made a pact with Azog the Defiler, protection and an army in exchange for Moria and Gundabad. Azog amassed his troops and we rode on wargs through a secret tunnel that connects the two kingdoms and leads out into Durin’s crypt. The mountain was on lockdown as the dwarves were trying to send word to the Iron Hills not realising they were the enemy and Dain had told on them. Only Thranduil’s army remained, so we released the wargs and ran through the kingdom making it to the Great Hall where we were ambushed by elven archers. Thorin pulled me to cover but a good portion of our army were killed.” He does not fail to see Gandalf’s eyebrow arch at his use of the word ‘our’ when describing the army. 

“All the while, Thranduil was on the walkway to the throne. He told Thorin to surrender and used his heir, Fíli, to force him out of hiding. The young lad was a fighter, he told Thorin to run as he tried to push Thranduil off the walkway but he misjudged and Thranduil shoved his sword through his back. The same sword he had once given Thorin as a wedding gift and demanded back when their engagement ended. Orcrist. Afterwards he kicked Fíli’s lifeless body off the walkway and he landed in front of Thorin and he was lost in his despair. The archers took aim but were accosted by a second wave of orcs led by Azog. It was Azog who took Thorin to safety and brought him back to himself but then Thranduil threatened Kíli. He even said Thorin could relinquish his crown and he would marry Kíli instead. He was beyond sense and he tried to make Thorin jealous by kissing his nephew but Kíli fought back and was stabbed in the heart. His body was discarded like his brother’s and Thorin turned to me, resolute and took the Arkenstone from my pocket, kissed me goodbye and he went to confront Thranduil on his own.” He realises that is the first mention of their relationship he has made as Gandalf’s eyebrows had practically ridden up to the brim of his hat. 

“I promised him that I would follow him to the end of the earth, there and back but there was no back and he knew that and he let me out of the promise. I couldn’t leave him, I gave him my word and I meant to honour it, so I followed him. As I reached the top of the stairs I was thrown headfirst into the wall. The elven guards did not even consider me a threat as they tossed me aside in their pursuit of Azog. I was briefly knocked out and came to, to the agonised screams of Azog being mercilessly skewered. I forced myself to my feet and staggered down the corridor to the golden door. The mountain trembled as Smaug was stirring and as I fell against the door, I saw Thranduil and Thorin toe to toe. Then I saw the sword sticking out of Thorin’s back. He fell to the floor dying and I was helpless all over again. I couldn’t stop the bleeding and there was so much blood. He gave me the Arkenstone, he told me it was destiny and then he rolled off the walkway so he would not die in my arms. I would have been ruined if he had and I think he knew that and he wanted to stick it to Thranduil one last time.” He hadn’t even realised he was crying until his laugh sounded more like a sob. 

“I couldn’t let his death be for nothing. The noble line of Durin did not end for no reason and they would live on in legend because I was going to make damn sure of it.” He says, heated from the memory. “Thranduil was crazy so I told him about Smaug and he knew.” 

“About the dragon?” Gandalf asks surprised. 

“Yes.” 

“He had some years to him, but he was not there in the Before Times. I wonder how he came to know about the dragon.” He stares at Gandalf sheepishly and the wizard’s eyes widen. “Something tells me I will not like the answer.”

“I’m sorry Gandalf but it was you. In fairness, he got you drunk first and it was your tales about me that gave him the idea of the subterfuge.”

“Can you forgive me, old friend?” He’s taken aback by Gandalf’s apology. 

“There is nothing to forgive. I take pride in the fact that you talk about me and had my name been left unsaid I would have never met Thorin.” 

“You and he, what aren’t you telling me?” 

“It’s complicated.” He answers as a blush stains his cheeks and Gandalf smiles knowingly. “Back to the story,” he suggests. “Thranduil confessed that he knew about the dragon and had sent for me. He told me he would be King of Erebor but now there was none left to marry he had to let Smaug awaken so he could kill it. He thought a black arrow would kill the beast and when I told him it would not, he refused to listen. Then the earth shook so terribly we both fell to the floor and as I looked up, I saw an orange reptilian eye stare back at me. It was too late, I had to return the heart to buy more time. Azog had told me that Durin had told him that when the heart is returned everything returns to the way that it was, which he believed meant Smaug would turn back to stone. So, I ran and jumped onto the throne and as I reached to put the heart back, Thranduil stabbed me in the back. I kicked him away and returned the stone and bid the beast to sleep. Thranduil was still alive but I was hoping someone else might stop him from taking the stone as I no longer could. I breathed my last and closed my eyes and when I opened them, I had returned to the moment I had originally taken the stone.” He finishes and looks at Gandalf hopefully. 

“It certainly explains your change of heart.” Gandalf says stroking his chin as if in thought. “I think I know enough now.” He states and stands and walks over to the cell door that had remained open throughout. “Dwalin, I would have you escort both Bilbo and I to your king.” His heart pounds in his chest at the thought of seeing Thorin again. He is in no state to meet royalty but he had been the king’s prisoner for three months so he hoped there would be some leeway regarding his appearance. 

“About time this was cleared up.” Dwalin grumbles and Gandalf beckons him to follow. He’s so nervous he doesn’t take in his surroundings and just follows immediately behind Gandalf hiding himself from view.

He feels nauseous once they enter the throne room and walk along the walkway which he actively ignores as he remembers the pool of blood Thorin left behind. Instead he looks towards the throne where the King is seated draped in an impressive black fur coat. He is without his crown and his long raven hair is combed backwards, the silver strands seemingly less than he remembered and his demeaner is less troubled. He had always had a handsome face and the bluest eyes the skies would be envious of but without the weight of the world on his shoulders he appears fresh-faced and youthful. 

“I would like to thank you once more for allowing me the opportunity to speak privately with Bilbo.” Thorin inclines his head in acceptance of Gandalf’s thanks. “This matter is a delicate one and one that can be easily solved." Gandalf says leaving them all in suspense. "Marriage." He announces as if flummoxed by their inability to come to that conclusion by themselves. Thorin’s thick eyebrow arches a fraction while his own jaw drops. “Your marriage to one who is both conqueror and saviour of your kingdom.” Gandalf turns then, and holds out his arm directing the King’s attention to him. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” He thinks his old friend means for him to approach but he cannot as he is frozen in fear. Gandalf smiles patiently and comes to collect him and as he is no longer in view, he shakes his head at Gandalf. 

“Marriage, that’s how this whole mess started.” He hisses in a whisper. 

“Do you not love the king?” Gandalf whispers back and he gives no answer. “Precisely, now stop embarrassing me.” He turns then and throws a companionable arm around his shoulders. “A hobbit of good family and unimpeachable reputation.” Discreetly Gandalf pushes him forward and he approaches the King trying desperately to still the tremors in his entire body. 

Thorin is watching him curiously and it is a blessing to have that gaze upon him once again. “Good morning, King Thorin.” He greets and bows his head. “You don’t ha…”

“Walk with me,” Thorin says interrupting him. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” He can only nod dumbly and hold out his hand and is surprised when Thorin takes it and climbs from his throne and drops it immediately after. Thorin does not wait or see if he is following and simply walks off down the walkway confident in the knowledge that he would follow. He would, to the end of the earth. 

He spares a desperate glance at Gandalf as he passes by and finds the wizard looking rather chuffed with himself. Gandalf winks in response to his cry for help and so he follows dutifully behind Thorin, careful not to step on his long coat that dragged across the floor. In fact, he keeps his eyes down the entire time, following the coat, not learning from past mistakes and it comes back to bite him, as he is suddenly pulled into a room and Thorin is before him locking the door. He quickly looks to his hips and is safe in the knowledge that the King is unarmed. He could still throttle him but he had been stabbed enough for one lifetime. 

“How can I trust the hobbit that invaded my kingdom?” Thorin asks. 

“I am starting to believe I am no longer the same hobbit that invaded your kingdom.” 

“That’s a short time for someone to change so much.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Have we met before?” There it was, the question he had been dreading.

“Why do you ask?” He asks, deflecting, as Thorin continues to stare at him reminisce of the time they were sat by the campfire and he confessed that he captivated him. 

“Something about your eyes.” He shakes his head as if awakening from a dream. “You seem familiar with me and I want to know why that is.” Thorin presses and leans against the door with his arms crossed. A simple gesture to demonstrate that he knew he had dodged his question and he demanded an answer. 

“We did…meet before.” He starts out unsure while Thorin smiles pleased that his theory was proven correct. Afterall, he had been pestering Gandalf, trying to learn how they knew one another. “Back then, I had the Arkenstone in my pocket.” The smile is wiped clean from Thorin’s face. 

“Do not lie to me.” 

“Please listen to what I have to say.” Thorin nods once but his grave expression isn’t very promising. “I know the Arkenstone is Smaug’s heart and it has never been removed for longer than a day. Only a protector is allowed to touch it or one of the Seven under the Divinity. I also know the sacred seven is nothing but Durin the First’s favourite number.” 

“Gandalf could have told you this.” 

“You told me this. We went on an adventure together, five days just you and me. I learnt your heart and you learnt mine.” It chills him how Thorin seems so unmoved by his confession. “We went to Ravenhill, you showed me the drawings you and your brother did. Then we went to Gundabad where we met Azog the Defiler, he has a crush on you but I think you know that. You asked him to honour his contract he made with Durin and he did. We returned to Erebor on wargs through the secret tunnel that connects the two kingdoms.” 

“Quite the storyteller, aren’t you?”

“You don’t believe me.” He says defeated. 

“Oh, you had me on some of the details but it is nothing that cannot be explained.” 

“I watched Thranduil murder Fíli and Kíli. He stabbed you and as I returned the heart, he stabbed me too.” Thorin does not reply with a verbal answer, instead he just a makes a noise. “I can’t decide if you don’t believe me or if you just don’t want to.” 

“I would believe you if you told me something honest. Tell me something true.” 

“Your favourite colour is blue.” He offers, offhand, since Thorin has chosen not to believe him. The dwarf parts his jacket to reveal royal blue robes. 

“A lucky guess.” 

“You dream of food.” 

“Who doesn’t?” He sighs, annoyed. 

“You fancy me.” Silence. He looks at the King in surprise. “Wait, you do?” He asks shocked. He had never been certain before. 

“You seem surprised considering we were lovers.” 

“We were never lovers.” 

“Shame.” If his jaw were capable of reaching the floor, he was sure it would. 

“All those jokes about sleeping together, you were being serious.” He mutters stupefied. 

“What did I say?” He startles as Thorin had bridged the distance between them and he has to tilt his head back to look him in the eyes. Personal space had always been an issue between them but he can’t quite remember Thorin being so tall. 

“I invited you to Bag End, my home.” He confesses and takes a step back. “I offered you the best guest bedroom but you wanted to sleep in mine.” Thorin walks a half circle around him, eyeing him from head to toe. 

“Does the offer still stand?” Thorin teases and suddenly the floodgates open and he begins to cry because this was the Thorin he knew, alive and well and as lecherous as ever. Thorin cups his chin and tilts his head back. “Why are you crying?” 

“Because the last time I saw you, you lay dying in my arms.”

“What was I to you?” Thorin asks while looking searchingly into his eyes. 

My dream made flesh. “Everything.” He confesses in a whisper and Thorin inclines his head and presses a tentative kiss against his lips. 

“I think I know what I saw in your eyes.” Thorin whispers into his ear and kisses him once more. “My past.” He says with another kiss. “My future.” Another kiss. “My destiny.” His next kiss is more assertive and his lips part as he returns his ardour. He tries to express all that he feels in a single kiss. I love you. I missed you. My life has no meaning without you. Thorin smiles into their kiss and he knows in his heart that he heard him and he potentially feels the same way. If he does not, they have a lifetime together to find their way back into love. It was their destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Next story will be a PWP and then I try my hand at my first vampire fic.


End file.
